Black Jack

by Brand, Max

  The wide mouth of Larrimer writhed silently from mirth to astonishment, and then sinister rage. And though he was in the shadow against the door, Terry saw the slow gleam in the face of the tall man-then his hand whipped for the gun. It came cleanly out. There was no flap to his holster, and the sight had been filed away to give more oiled and perfect freedom to the draw. Years of patient practice had taught his muscles to reflex in this one motion with a speed that baffled the eye. Fast as light that draw seemed to those who watched, and the draw of Terry Hollis appeared to hang in midair. His hand wavered, then clutched suddenly, and they saw a flash of metal, not the actual motion of drawing the gun. Just that gleam of the barrel at his hip, hardly clear of the holster, and then in the dimness of the big room a spurt of flame and the boom of the gun.

  There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of the room. Larrimer's gun had rattled on the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt arms as though he were appealing for help, leaped into the air, and fell heavily, with a force that vibrated the floor where Terry stood.

  There was one heartbeat of silence.

  Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the body of Larrimer.

  To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.

  "I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger work in this town," he said. "But I'm going to leave it to you gentlemen to take the carrion away. Shorty, I'm going back to the house. Are you ready to ride that way?"

  When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward, they found a neat, circular splotch of purple exactly placed between the eyes.

  * * *

  The first thing the people in Pollard's big house knew of the return of the two was a voice singing faintly and far off in the stable-they could hear it because the door to the big living room was opened. And Kate Pollard, who had been sitting idly at the piano, stood up suddenly and looked around her. It did not interrupt the crap game of the four at one side of the room, where they kneeled in a close circle. But it brought big Pollard himself to the door in time to meet Denver Pete as the latter hurried in.

  When Denver was excited he talked very nearly as softly as he walked. And his voice tonight was like a contented humming.

  "It worked," was all he said aside to Pollard as he came through the door. They exchanged silent grips of the hands. Then Kate drew down on them; as if a mysterious; signal had been passed to them by the subdued entrance of Denver, the four rose at the side of the room.

  It was Pollard who forced him to talk.

  "What happened?"

  "A pretty little party," said Denver. His purring voice was so soft that to hear him the others instantly drew close. Kate Pollard stood suddenly before him.

  "Terry Hollis has done something," she said. "Denver, what has he done?"

  "Him? Nothing much. To put it in his own words, he's just played scavenger for the town-and he's done it in a way they won't be forgetting for a good long day.

  "Denver!"

  "Well? No need of acting up, Kate."

  "Who was it?"

  "Ever meet young Larrimer?"

  She shuddered. "Yes. A-beast of a man."

  "Sure. Worse'n a beast, maybe. Well, he's carrion now, to use Terry's words again."

  "Wait a minute," cut in big blond Phil Marvin. Don't spoil the story for Terry. But did he really do for Larrimer? Larrimer was a neat one with a gun-no good otherwise."

  "Did he do for Larrimer?" echoed Denver in his purring voice. "Oh, man, man! Did he do for Larrimer? And I ain't spoiling his story. He won't talk about it. Wouldn't open his face about it all the way home. A pretty neat play, boys. Larrimer was looking for a rep, and he wanted to make it on Black Jack's son. Came tearing in.

  "At first Terry tried to sidestep him. Made me weak inside for a minute because I thought he was going to take water. Then he got riled a bit and then-whang! It was all over. Not a body shot. No, boys, nothing clumsy and amateurish like that, because a man may live to empty his gun at you after he's been shot through the body. This young Hollis, pals, just ups and drills Larrimer clean between the eyes. If you'd measured it off with a ruler, you couldn't have hit exact center any better'n he done. Then he walks up and stirs Larrimer with his toe to make sure he was dead. Cool as hell."

  "You lie!" cried the girl suddenly.

  They whirled at her, and found her standing and flaming at them.

  "You hear me say it, Kate," said Denver, losing a little of his calm.

  "He wasn't as cool as that-after killing a man. He wasn't."

  "All right, honey. Don't you hear him singing out there in the stable? Does that sound as if he was cut up much?"

  "Then you've made him a murderer-you, Denver, and you, Dad. Oh, if they's a hell, you're going to travel there for this! Both of you!"

  "As if we had anything to do with it!" exclaimed Denver innocently. "Besides, it wasn't murder. It was plain self-defense. Nothing but that. Three witnesses to swear to it. But, my, my-you should hear that town rave. They thought nobody could beat Larrimer."

  The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her hand, brooding. It was all impossible-it could not be. Yet there was Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis singing as he cared for El Sangre.

  She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close at hand. Presently the singing rang out more clearly. He had stepped out of the barn.

  Oh, I am a friar of orders gray, Through hill and valley I take my way. My long bead roll I merrily chant; Wherever I wander no money I want!

  And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them in greeting. It was impossible-more impossible than ever.

  He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her with that stain in his soul?

  And this was what Terry said to her: "I'm going to teach El Sangre to let you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you'd been with us going down the hill this morning!"

  No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed larger and brighter-it was no longer possible for her to look deeply into it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other differences.

  He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was an air of uneasy, alert happiness-as of one who steals a few perfect moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her, and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.

  "Terry Hollis, what have you done? You're lookin' me in the eye, but you ought to be hangin' your head. You've done murder! Murder! Murder!"

  She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.

  He was laughing down at her-actually laughing, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her; she became afraid for the first time in her life.

  "A little formality with a gun," he said calmly. "A dog got in my way, Kate-a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm."

  "Ah, Terry, I know everything. I've heard Denver tell it. I know it was a man, Terry."

  He insisted carelessly. "By the Lord, Kate, only a dog-and a mad dog at that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn't worth talk
ing about."

  She drew away from him. "Terry, God pity you. I pity you," she went on hurriedly and faintly. "But you ain't the same any more, Terry. I-I'm almost afraid of you!"

  He tried laughingly to stop her, and in a sudden burst of hysterical terror she fled from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come after her, light as a shadow. And the shadow leaped between her and the door; the force of her rush drove her into his arms.

  In the distance she could hear the others laughing-they understood such a game as this, and enjoyed it with all their hearts. Ah, the fools!

  He held her lightly, his fingertips under her elbows. For all the delicacy of that touch, she knew that if she attempted to flee, the grip would be iron. He would hold her where she was until he was through talking to her.

  "Don't you see what I've done?" he was saying rapidly. "You wanted to drive me out last night. You said I didn't fit-that I didn't belong up here. Well, Kate, I started out today to make myself fit to belong to this company of fine fellows."

  He laughed a little; if it were not real mirth, at least there was a fierce quality of joy in his voice.

  "You see, I decided that if I went away I'd be lonely. Particularly, I'd be lonely as the devil, Kate, for you!"

  "You've murdered to make yourself one-of us?"

  "Tush, Kate. You exaggerate entirely. Do you know what I've really done? Why, I've wakened; I've come to my senses. After all, there was no other place for me to go. I tried the world of good, ordinary working people. I asked them to let me come in and prove my right to be one of them. They discharged me when I worked honestly on the range. They sent their professional gunmen and bullies after me. And then-I reached the limit of my endurance, Kate, and I struck back. And the mockery of it all is this-that though they have struck me repeatedly and I have endured it, I-having struck back a single time-am barred from among them forever. Let it be so!"

  "Hush, Terry. I-I'm going to think of ways!"

  "You couldn't. Last night-yes. Today I'm a man-and I'm free. And freedom is the sweetest thing in the world. There's no place else for me to go. This is my world. You're my queen. I've won my spurs; I'll use them in your service, Kate."

  "Stop, Terry!"

  "By the Lord, I will, though! I'm happy-don't you see? And I'm going to be happier. I'm going to work my way along until I can tell you-that I love you, Kate-that you're the daintiest body of fire and beauty and temper and gentleness and wisdom and fun that was ever crowned with the name of a woman. And-"

  But under the rapid fire of his words there was a touch of hardness- mockery, perhaps. She drew back, and he stepped instantly aside. She went by him through the door with bowed head. And Terry, closing it after her, heard the first sob.

  * * *

  They drifted past the town, quickening to a soft trot after a moment, and then to a faster trot-El Sangre was gliding along at a steady pace.

  "Not back to the house!" said Denver with an oath, when they straightened back to the house of Pollard. "That's the first place McGuire will look, after what you said to him the other night."

  "That's where I want him to look," answered Terry, "and that's where he'll find me. Pollard will hide the coin and we'll get one of the boys to take our sweaty horses over the hills. We can tell McGuire that the two horses have been put out to pasture, if he asks. But he mustn't find hot horses in the stable. Certainly McGuire will strike for the house. But what will he find?"

  He laughed joyously.

  Suddenly the voice of Denver cut in softly, insinuatingly.

  "You dope it that he'll cut for the house of Pollard? So do I. Now, kid, why not go another direction-and keep on going? What right have Pollard and the others to cut in on this coin? You and me, kid, can-"

  "I don't hear you, Denver," interrupted Terry. "I don't hear you. We wouldn't have known where to find the stuff if it hadn't been for Pollard's friend Sandy. They get their share-but you can have my part, Denver. I'm not doing this for money; it's only an object lesson to that fat-headed sheriff. I'd pay twice this price for the sake of the little talk I'm going to have with him later on tonight."

  "All right-Black Jack," muttered Denver. For it seemed to him that the voice of the lost leader had spoken. "Play the fool, then, kid. But- let's feed these skates the spur! The town's boiling!"

  Indeed, there was a dull roar behind them.

  "No danger," chuckled Terry. "McGuire knows perfectly well that I've done this. And because he knows that, and he knows that I know it, he'll strike in the opposite direction to Pollard's house. He'll never dream that I would go right back to Pollard and sit down under the famous nose of McGuire!"

  The dawn was brightening over the mountains above them, and the skyline was ragged with forest. A free country for free men-like the old Black Jack and the new. A short life, perhaps, but a full one.

  The coming of the day showed Denver's face weary and drawn. Those moments in the bank, surrounded by danger, had been nerve-racking even to his experience. But to him it was a business, and to Terry it was a game. He felt a qualm of pity for Lewison-but, after all, the man was a wolf, selfish, accumulating money to no purpose, useless to the world. He shrugged the thought of Lewison away.

  It was close to sunrise when they reached the house, and having put up the horses, staggered in and called to Johnny to bring them coffee; he was already rattling at the kitchen stove. Then, with a shout, they brought Pollard himself stumbling down from the balcony rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They threw the money down before him.

  He was stupefied, and then his big lion's voice went booming with the call for his men. Terry did not wait; he stretched himself with a great yawn and made for his bed, and passed Phil Marvin and the others hurrying downstairs to answer the summons. Kate Pollard came also. She paused as he went by her and he saw her eyes go down to his dusty boots, with the leather polished where the stirrup had chafed, then flashed back to his face.

  "You, Terry!" she whispered.

  But he went by her with a wave of the hand.

  The girl went on down to the big room. They were gathered already, a bright-eyed, hungry-faced crew of men. Gold was piled across the table in front of them. Slim Dugan had been ordered to go to the highest window of the house and keep watch for the coming of the expected posse. In the meantime the others counted the money, ranging it in bright little stacks; and Denver told the tale.

  He took a little more credit to himself than was his due. But it was his part to pay a tribute to Terry. For was it not he who had brought the son of Black Jack among them?

  "And of all the close squeezes I ever been in," concluded Denver, "that was the closest. And of all the nervy, cold-eyed guys I ever see, Black Jack's kid takes the cake. Never a quiver all the time. And when he whispered, them two guys at the table jumped. He meant business, and they knew it."

  The girl listened. Her eye alone was not upon the money, but fixed far off, at thin distance.

  "Thirty-five thousand gold," announced Pollard, with a break of excitement in his voice, "and seventeen thousand three hundred and eighty-two in paper. Boys, the richest haul we ever made! And the coolest deal all the way through. Which I say, Denver and Terry-Terry particular-gets extra shares for what they done!"

  And there was a chorus of hearty approval. The voice of Denver cut it short.

  "Terry don't want none. No, boys, knock me dead if he does. Can you beat it? 'I did it to keep my word,' he says, 'with the sheriff. You can have my share, Denver.'

  "And he sticks on it. It's a game with him, boys. He plays at it like a big kid!"

  In the hush of astonishment, the eyes of Kate misted. Something in that last speech had stung her cruelly. Something had to be done, and quickly, to save young Terry Hollis. But what power could influence him?

  It was that thought which brought her to the hope for a solution. A very vague and faraway hope to which she clung and which unravelled slowly in her imagination. Before she left the kitchen, her plan was made, and immed
iately after breakfast, she went to her room and dressed for a long journey.

  "I'm going over the hills to visit the Stockton girls," she told her father. "Be gone a few days."

  His mind was too filled with hope for the future to understand her. He nodded idly, and she was gone.

  She roped the toughest mustang of her "string" in the corral, and ten minutes later she was jogging down the trail. Halfway down a confused group of riders-some dozen in all-swarmed up out of the lower trail. Sheriff McGuire rode out on a sweating horse that told of fierce and long riding and stopped her.

  His salutation was brief; he plunged into the heart of his questions. Had she noticed anything unusual this morning? Which of the men had been absent from the house last night? Particularly, who went out with Black Jack's kid?

  "Nobody left the house," she said steadily. "Not a soul."

  And she kept a blank eye on the sheriff while he bit his lip and studied her.

  "Kate," he said at length, "I don't blame you for not talking. I don't suppose I would in your place. But your dad has about reached the end of the rope with us. If you got any influence, try to change him, because if he don't do it by his own will, he's going to be changed by force!"

  And he rode on up the trail, followed by the silent string of riders on their grunting, tired horses. She gave them only a careless glance. Joe Pollard had baffled officers of the law before, and he would do it again. That was not her great concern on this day.

  Down the trail she sent her mustang again, and broke him out into a stiff gallop on the level ground below. She headed straight through the town, and found a large group collected in and around the bank building. They turned and looked after her, but no one spoke a greeting. Plainly the sheriff's suspicions were shared by others.

  She shook that shadow out of her head and devoted her entire attention to the trail which roughened and grew narrow on the other side of the town. Far away across the mountains lay her goal-the Cornish ranch.

  * * *

  The fine gray head, the hawklike, aristocratic face, and the superior manner of Waters procured him admission to many places where the ordinary man was barred. It secured him admission on this day to the office of Sheriff McGuire, though McGuire had refused to see his best friends.