Black Jack

When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence Colby coming up the terrace from the river road on Le Sangre.  And a changed horse he was.  One ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but would try to be on the alert.  One ear flagged warily back.  He went slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse.  Yet, when the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a creature of fire and wire-strung nerves.  The rider gave to the side-spring with supple grace and then sent the stallion on up the hill.

Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry.  His black hair was blowing about his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has done a hard day’s work and is ready to rest.  He came close to the veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly, curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.

“The killer is no longer a killer,” laughed Terry.  “Look him over, Uncle Vance.  A beauty, eh?”

Elizabeth said nothing at all.  But she rocked herself back and forth a trifle in her chair as she nodded.  She glanced over the terrace, hoping that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy.  Then she looked back at Terence.  But Vance was regarding the horse.

“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”

“Not much more.  A leggy horse can’t stand mountain work—­or any other work, for that matter, except a ride in the park.”

“I suppose you’re right.  He’s a picture horse, Terry.  And a devilish eye, but I see that you’ve beaten him.”

“Beaten him?” He shook his head.  “We reached a gentleman’s agreement.  As long as I wear spurs, he’ll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or splashes my skull to bits with his heels.  Otherwise he’ll keep on fighting till he drops.  But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop tormenting him, he’ll do what I like.  No whips or spurs for Le Sangre.  Eh, boy?”

He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them.  The horse stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt came in his eyes.

“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.

But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket.

The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them.  Just as he turned, the mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture—­a man with long black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping through a dusty street with shots barking behind him.  It came suddenly as a revelation, and left him downheaded with the thought.

“What is it, Vance?” asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.

“Nothing.”  Then he added abruptly:  “I’m going for a jaunt for a few days, Elizabeth.”

She grew gloomy.

“Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?”

“Not at all.  I’m going to be back here in ten days and drink Terry’s long life and happiness across the birthday dinner table.”

He marvelled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her face.

“You noticed that—­his gentleman’s agreement with Le Sangre?  I’ve made him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight—­men argue and agree.”

“I’ve noticed that he never has trouble with the cow-punchers.”

“They’ve seen him box,” chuckled Elizabeth.  “Besides, Terry isn’t the sort that troublemakers like to pick on.  He has an ugly look when he’s angry.”

“H’m,” murmured Vance.  “I’ve noticed that.  But as long as he keeps to his fists, he’ll do no harm.  But what is the reason for surrounding him with guns, Elizabeth?”

“A very good reason.  He loves them, you know.  Anything from a shotgun to a derringer is a source of joy to Terence.  And not a day goes by that he doesn’t handle them.”

“Certainly the effect of blood, eh?” suggested Vance.

She glanced sharply at him.

“You’re determined to be disagreeable today, Vance.  As a matter of fact, I’ve convinced him that for the very reason he is so accurate with a gun he must never enter a gun fight.  The advantage would be too much on his side against any ordinary man.  That appeals to Terry’s sense of fair play.  No, he’s absolutely safe, no matter how you look at it.”

“No doubt.”

He looked away from her and over the valley.  The day had worn into the late afternoon.  Bear Creek ran dull and dark in the shadow, and Mount Discovery was robed in blue to the very edge of its shining crown of snow.  In this dimmer, richer light the Cornish ranch had never seemed so desirable to Vance.  It was not a ranch; it was a little kingdom.  And Vance was the dispossessed heir.

He knew that he was being watched, however, and all that evening he was at his best.  At the dinner table he guided the talk so that Terence Colby was the lion of the conversation.  Afterward, when he was packing his things in his room for his journey of the next day, he was careful to sing at the top of his voice.  He reaped a reward for this cautious acting, for the next morning, when he climbed into the buckboard that was to take him down the Blue Mountain road and over to the railroad, his sister came down the steps and stood beside the wagon.

“You will come back for the birthday party, Vance?” she pleaded.

“You want me to?”

“You were with me when I got Terry.  In fact, you got him for me.  And I want you to be here when he steps into his own.”

In this he found enough to keep him thoughtful all the way to the railroad while the buckskins grunted up the grade and then spun away down the long slope beyond.  It was one of those little ironies of fate that he should have picked up the very man who was to disinherit him some twenty-four years later.

He carried no grudge against Elizabeth, but he certainly retained no tenderness.  Hereafter he would act his part as well as he could to extract the last possible penny out of her.  And in the meantime he must concentrate on tripping up Terence Colby, alias Hollis.

Vance saw nothing particularly vicious in this.  He had been idle so long that he rejoiced in a work which was within his mental range.  It included scheming, working always behind the scenes, pulling strings to make others jump.  And if he could trip Terry and actually make him shoot a man on or before that birthday, he had no doubt that his sister would actually throw the boy out of her house and out of her life.  A woman who could give twenty-four years to a theory would be capable of grim things when the theory went wrong.

It was early evening when he climbed off the train at Garrison City.  He had not visited the place since that cattle-buying trip of twenty-four years ago that brought the son of Black Jack into the affairs of the Cornish family.  Garrison City had become a city.  There were two solid blocks of brick buildings next to the station, a network of paved streets, and no less than three hotels.  It was so new to the eye and so obviously full of the “booster” spirit that he was appalled at the idea of prying through this modern shell and getting back to the heart and the memory of the old days of the town.

At the restaurant he forced himself upon a grave-looking gentleman across the table.  He found that the solemn-faced man was a travelling drummer.  The venerable loafer in front of the blacksmith’s shop was feeble-minded, and merely gaped at the name of Black Jack.  The proprietor of the hotel shook his head with positive antagonism.

“Of course, Garrison City has its past,” he admitted, “but we are living it down, and have succeeded pretty well.  I think I’ve heard of a ruffian of the last generation named Jack Hollis; but I don’t know anything, and I don’t care to know anything, about him.  But if you’re interested in Garrison City, I’d like to show you a little plot of ground in a place that is going to be the center of the—­”

Vance Cornish made his mind a blank, let the smooth current of words slip off his memory as from an oiled surface, and gave up Garrison City as a hopeless job.  Nevertheless, it was the hotel proprietor who dropped a valuable hint.

“If you’re interested in the early legends, why don’t you go to the State Capitol?  They have every magazine and every book that so much as mentions any place in the state.”  So Vance Cornish went to the capitol and entered the library.  It was a sweaty task and a most discouraging one.  The name “Black Jack” revealed nothing; and the name of Hollis was an equal blank, so far as the indices were concerned.  He was preserved in legend only, and Vance Cornish could make no vital use of legend.  He wanted something in cold print.

So he began an exhaustive search.  He went through volume after volume, but though he came upon mention of Black Jack, he never reached the account of an eyewitness of any of those stirring holdups or train robberies.

And then he began on the old files of magazines.  And still nothing.  He was about to give up with four days of patient labor wasted when he struck gold in the desert—­the very mine of information which he wanted.

“How I Painted Black Jack,” by Lawrence Montgomery.

There was the photograph of the painter, to begin with—­a man who had discovered the beauty of the deserts of the Southwest.  But there was more—­much more.  It told how, in his wandering across the desert, he had hunted for something more than raw-colored sands and purple mesas blooming in the distance.

He had searched for a human being to fit into the picture and give the softening touch of life.  But he never found the face for which he had been looking.  And then luck came and tapped him on the shoulder.  A lone rider came out of the dusk and the desert and loomed beside his campfire.  The moment the firelight flushed on the face of the man, he knew this was the face for which he had been searching.  He told how they fried bacon and ate it together; he told of the soft voice and the winning smile of the rider; he told of his eyes, unspeakably soft and unspeakably bold, and the agile, nervous hands, forever shifting and moving in the firelight.

The next morning he had asked his visitor to sit for a picture, and his request had been granted.  All day he labored at the canvas, and by night the work was far enough along for him to dismiss his visitor.  So the stranger asked for a small brush with black paint on it, and in the corner of the canvas drew in the words “Yours, Black Jack.”  Then he rode into the night.

Black Jack!  Lawrence Montgomery had made up his pack and struck straight back for the nearest town.  There he asked for tidings of a certain Black Jack, and there he got what he wanted in heaps.  Everyone knew Black Jack—­too well!  There followed a brief summary of the history of the desperado and his countless crimes, unspeakable tales of cunning and courage and merciless vengeance taken.

Vance Cornish turned the last page of the article, and there was the reproduction of the painting.  He held his breath when he saw it.  The outlaw sat on his horse with his head raised and turned, and it was the very replica of Terence Colby as the boy had waved to them from the back of Le Sangre.  More than a family, sketchy resemblance—­far more.

There was the same large, dark eye; the same smile, half proud and half joyous; the same imperious lift of the head; the same bold carving of the features.  There were differences, to be sure.  The nose of Black Jack had been more cruelly arched, for instance, and his cheekbones were higher and more pronounced.  But in spite of the dissimilarities the resemblance was more than striking.  It might have stood for an actual portrait of Terence Colby masquerading in long hair.

When the full meaning of this photograph had sunk into his mind, Vance Cornish closed his eyes.  “Eureka!” he whispered to himself.

There was something more to be done.  But it was very simple.  It merely consisted in covertly cutting out the pages of the article in question.  Then, carefully, for fear of loss, he jotted down the name and date of the magazine, folded his stolen pages, and fitted them snugly into his breast pocket.  That night he ate his first hearty dinner in four days.