Black Jack

Elizabeth left the ordering of the guests at the table to Vance, and she consulted him about it as they went into the dining room.  It was a long, low-ceilinged room, with more windows than wall space.  It opened onto a small porch, and below the porch was the garden which had been the pride of Henry Cornish.  Beside the tall glass doors which led out onto the porch she reviewed the seating plans of Vance.  “You at this end and I at the other,” he said.  “I’ve put the sheriff beside you, and right across from the sheriff is Nelly.  She ought to keep him busy.  The old idiot has a weakness for pretty girls, and the younger the better, it seems.  Next to the sheriff is Mr. Gainor.  He’s a political power, and what time the sheriff doesn’t spend on you and on Nelly he certainly will give to Gainor.  The arrangement of the rest doesn’t matter.  I simply worked to get the sheriff well-pocketed and keep him under your eye.”

“But why not under yours, Vance?  You’re a thousand times more diplomatic than I am.”

“I wouldn’t take the responsibility, for, after all, this may turn out to be a rather solemn occasion, Elizabeth.”

“You don’t think so, Vance?”

“I pray not.”

“And where have you put Terence?”

“Next to Nelly, at your left.”

“Good heavens, Vance, that’s almost directly opposite the sheriff.  You’ll have them practically facing each other.”

It was the main thing he was striving to attain.  He placated her carefully.

“I had to.  There’s a danger.  But the advantage is huge.  You’ll be there between them, you might say.  You can keep the table talk in hand at that end.  Flash me a signal if you’re in trouble, and I’ll fire a question down the table at the sheriff or Terry, and get their attention.  In the meantime you can draw Terry into talk with you if he begins to ask the sheriff what you consider leading questions.  In that way, you’ll keep the talk a thousand leagues away from the death of Black Jack.”

He gained his point without much more trouble.  Half an hour later the table was surrounded by the guests.  It was a table of baronial proportions, but twenty couples occupied every inch of the space easily.  Vance found himself a greater distance than he could have wished from the scene of danger, and of electrical contact.

At least four zones of cross-fire talk intervened, and the talk at the farther end of the table was completely lost to him, except when some new and amazing dish, a triumph of Wu Chi’s fabrication, was brought on, and an appreciative wave of silence attended it.

Or again, the mighty voice of the sheriff was heard to bellow forth in laughter of heroic proportions.

Aside from that, there was no information he could gather except by his eyes.  And chiefly, the face of Elizabeth.  He knew her like a book in which he had often read.  Twice he read the danger signals.  When the great roast was being removed, he saw her eyes widen and her lips contract a trifle, and he knew that someone had come very close to the danger line indeed.  Again when dessert was coming in bright shoals on the trays of the Chinese servants, the glance of his sister fixed on him down the length of the table with a grim appeal.  He made a gesture of helplessness.  Between them four distinct groups into which the table talk had divided were now going at full blast.  He could hardly have made himself heard at the other end of the table without shouting.

Yet that crisis also passed away.  Elizabeth was working hard, but as the meal progressed toward a close, he began to worry.  It had seemed impossible that the sheriff could actually sit this length of time in such an assemblage without launching into the stories for which he was famous.  Above all, he would be sure to tell how he had started on his career as a manhunter by relating how he slew Black Jack.

Once the appalling thought came to Vance that the story must have been told during one of those moments when his sister had shown alarm.  The crisis might be over, and Terry had indeed showed a restraint which was a credit to Elizabeth’s training.  But by the hunted look in her eyes, he knew that the climax had not yet been reached, and that she was continually fighting it away.

He writhed with impatience.  If he had not been a fool, he would have taken that place himself, and then he could have seen to it that the sheriff, with dexterous guiding, should approach the fatal story.  As it was, how could he tell that Elizabeth might not undo all his plans and cleverly keep the sheriff away from his favorite topic for an untold length of time?  But as he told his sister, he wished to place all the seeming responsibility on her own shoulders.  Perhaps he had played too safe.

The first ray of hope came to him as coffee was brought in.  The prodigious eating of the cattlemen and miners at the table had brought them to a stupor.  They no longer talked, but puffed with unfamiliar awkwardness at the fine Havanas which Vance had provided.  Even the women talked less, having worn off the edge of the novelty of actually dining at the table of Elizabeth Cornish.  And since the hostess was occupied solely with the little group nearest her, and there was no guiding mind to pick up the threads of talk in each group and maintain it, this duty fell more and more into the hands of Vance.  He took up his task with pleasure.

Farther and farther down the table extended the sphere of his mild influence.  He asked Mr. Wainwright to tell the story of how he treed the bear so that the tenderfoot author could come and shoot it.  Mr. Wainwright responded with gusto.  The story was a success.  He varied it by requesting young Dobel to describe the snowslide which had wiped out the Vorheimer shack the winter before.

Young Dobel did well enough to make the men grunt at the end, and he brought several little squeals of horror from the ladies.

All of this was for a purpose.  Vance was setting the precedent, and they were becoming used to hearing stories.  At the end of each tale the silence of expectation was longer and wider.  Finally, it reached the other end of the table, and suddenly the sheriff discovered that tales were going the rounds, and that he had not yet been heard.  He rolled his eye with an inward look, and Vance knew that he was searching for some smooth means of introducing one of his yarns.

Victory!

But here Elizabeth cut trenchantly into the heart of the conversation.  She had seen and understood.  She shot home half a dozen questions with the accuracy of a marksman, and beat up a drumfire of responses from the ladies which, for a time, rattled up and down the length of the table.  The sheriff was biting his mustache thoughtfully.

It was only a momentary check, however.  Just at the point where Vance began to despair of ever effecting his goal, the silence began again as lady after lady ran out of material for the nonce.  And as the silence spread, the sheriff was visibly gathering steam.

Again Elizabeth cut in.  But this time there was only a sporadic chattering in response.  Coffee was steaming before them, Wu Chi’s powerful, thick, aromatic coffee, which only he knew how to make.  They were in a mood, now, to hear stories, that tableful of people.  An expected ally came to the aid of Vance.  It was Terence, who had been eating his heart out during the silly table talk of the past few minutes.  Now he seized upon the first clear opening.

“Sheriff Minter, I’ve heard a lot about the time you ran down Johnny Garden.  But I’ve never had the straight of it.  Won’t you tell us how it happened?”

“Oh,” protested the sheriff, “it don’t amount to much.”

Elizabeth cast one frantic glance at her brother, and strove to edge into the interval of silence with a question directed at Mr. Gainor.  But he shelved that question; the whole table was obviously waiting for the great man to speak.  A dozen appeals for the yarn poured in.

“Well,” said the sheriff, “if you folks are plumb set on it, I’ll tell you just how it come about.”

There followed a long story of how Johnny Garden had announced that he would ride down and shoot up the sheriff’s own town, and then get away on the sheriff’s own horse—­and how he did it.  And how the sheriff was laughed at heartily by the townsfolk, and how the whole mountain district joined in the laughter.  And how he started out single-handed in the middle of winter to run down Johnny Garden, and struck through the mountains, was caught above the timberline in a terrific blizzard, kept on in peril of his life until he barely managed to reach the timber again on the other side of the ridge.  How he descended upon the hiding-place of Johnny Garden, found Johnny gone, but his companions there, and made a bargain with them to let them go if they would consent to stand by and offer no resistance when he fought with Johnny on the latter’s return.  How they were as good as their word and how, when Johnny returned, they stood aside and let Johnny and the sheriff fight it out.  How the sheriff beat Johnny to the draw, but was wounded in the left arm while Johnny fired a second shot as he lay dying on the floor of the lean-to.  How the sheriff’s wound was dressed by the companions of the dead Johnny, and how he was safely dismissed with honor, as between brave men, and how afterwards he hunted those same men down one by one.

It was quite a long story, but the audience followed it with a breathless interest.

“Yes, sir,” concluded the sheriff, as the applause of murmurs fell off.  “And from yarns like that one you wouldn’t never figure it that I was the son of a minister brung up plumb peaceful.  Now, would you?”

And again, to the intense joy of Vance, it was Terry who brought the subject back, and this time the subject of all subjects which Elizabeth dreaded, and which Vance longed for.

“Tell us how you came to branch out, Sheriff Minter?”

“It was this way,” began the sheriff, while Elizabeth cast at Vance a glance of frantic and weary appeal, to which he responded with a gesture which indicated that the cause was lost.

“I was brung up mighty proper.  I had a most amazing lot of prayers at the tip of my tongue when I wasn’t no more’n knee-high to a grasshopper.  But when a man has got a fire in him, they ain’t no use trying to smother it.  You either got to put water on it or else let it burn itself out.

“My old man didn’t see it that way.  When I got to cutting up he’d try to smother it, and stop me by saying:  ‘Don’t!’ Which don’t accomplish nothing with young gents that got any spirit.  Not a damn thing—­asking your pardon, ladies!  Well, sirs, he kept me in harness, you might say, and pulling dead straight down the road and working hard and faithful.  But all the time I’d been saving up steam, and swelling and swelling and getting pretty near ready to bust.

“Well, sirs, pretty soon—­we was living in Garrison City them days, when Garrison wasn’t near the town that it is now—­along comes word that Jack Hollis is around.  A lot of you younger folks ain’t never heard nothing about him.  But in his day Jack Hollis was as bad as they was made.  They was nothing that Jack wouldn’t turn to real handy, from shootin’ up a town to sticking up a train or a stage.  And he done it all just about as well.  He was one of them universal experts.  He could blow a safe as neat as you’d ask.  And if it come to a gun fight, he was greased lightning with a flying start.  That was Jack Hollis.”

The sheriff paused to draw breath.

“Perhaps,” said Elizabeth Cornish, white about the lips, “we had better go into the living room to hear the rest of the sheriff’s story?”

It was not a very skillful diversion, but Elizabeth had reached the point of utter desperation.  And on the way into the living room unquestionably she would be able to divert Terry to something else.  Vance held his breath.

And it was Terry who signed his own doom.

“We’re very comfortable here, Aunt Elizabeth.  Let’s not go in till the sheriff has finished his story.”

The sheriff rewarded him with a flash of gratitude, and Vance settled back in his chair.  The end could not, now, be far away.