Black Jack

The talk was fitful in the living room.  Elizabeth Cornish did her best to revive the happiness of her guests, but she herself was a prey to the same subdued excitement which showed in the faces of the others.  A restraint had been taken away by the disappearance of both the storm centers of the dinner—­the sheriff and Terry.  Therefore it was possible to talk freely.  And people talked.  But not loudly.  They were prone to gather in little familiar groups and discuss in a whisper how Terry had risen and spoken before them.  Now and then someone, for the sake of politeness, strove to open a general theme of conversation, but it died away like a ripple on a placid pond.

“But what I can’t understand,” said Elizabeth to Vance when she was able to maneuver him to her side later on, “is why they seem to expect something more.”

Vance was very grave and looked tired.  The realization that all his cunning, all his work, had been for nothing, tormented him.  He had set his trap and baited it, and it had worked perfectly—­save that the teeth of the trap had closed over thin air.  At the denouement of the sheriff’s story there should have been the barking of two guns and a film of gunpowder smoke should have gone tangling to the ceiling.  Instead there had been the formal little speech from Terry—­and then quiet.  Yet he had to mask and control his bitterness; he had to watch his tongue in talking with his sister.

“You see,” he said quietly, “they don’t understand.  They can’t see how fine Terry is in having made no attempt to avenge the death of his father.  I suppose a few of them think he’s a coward.  I even heard a little talk to that effect!”

“Impossible!” cried Elizabeth.

She had not thought of this phase of the matter.  All at once she hated the sheriff.

“It really is possible,” said Vance.  “You see, it’s known that Terry never fights if he can avoid it.  There never has been any real reason for fighting until today.  But you know how gossip will put the most unrelated facts together, and make a complete story in some way.”

“I wish the sheriff were dead!” moaned Elizabeth.  “Oh, Vance, if you only hadn’t gone near Craterville!  If you only hadn’t distributed those wholesale invitations!”

It was almost too much for Vance—­to be reproached after so much of the triumph was on her side—­such a complete victory that she herself would never dream of the peril she and Terry had escaped.  But he had to control his irritation.  In fact, he saw his whole life ahead of him carefully schooled and controlled.  He no longer had anything to sell.  Elizabeth had made a mock of him and shown him that he was hollow, that he was living on her charity.  He must all the days that she remained alive keep flattering her, trying to find a way to make himself a necessity to her.  And after her death there would be a still harder task.  Terry, who disliked him pointedly, would then be the master, and he would face the bitter necessity of cajoling the youngster whom he detested.  A fine life, truly!  An almost noble anguish of the spirit came upon Vance.  He was urged to the very brink of the determination to thrust out into the world and make his own living.  But he recoiled from that horrible idea in time.

“Yes,” he said, “that was the worst step I ever took.  But I was trying to be wholehearted in the Western way, my dear, and show that I had entered into the spirit of things.”

“As a matter of fact,” sighed Elizabeth, “you nearly ruined Terry’s life—­and mine!”

“Very near,” said the penitent Vance.  “But then—­you see how well it has turned out?  Terry has taken the acid test, and now you can trust him under any—­”

The words were literally blown off ragged at his lips.  Two revolver shots exploded at them.  No one gun could have fired them.  And there was a terrible significance in the angry speed with which one had followed the other, blending, so that the echo from the lofty side of Sleep Mountain was but a single booming sound.  In that clear air it was impossible to tell the direction of the noise.

Everyone in the room seemed to listen stupidly for a repetition of the noises.  But there was no repetition.

“Vance,” whispered Elizabeth in such a tone that the coward dared not look into her face.  “It’s happened!”

“What?” He knew, but he wanted the joy of hearing it from her own lips.

“It has happened,” she whispered in the same ghostly voice.  “But which one?”

That was it.  Who had fallen—­Terry, or the sheriff?  A long, heavy step crossed the little porch.  Either man might walk like that.

The door was flung open.  Terence Hollis stood before them.

“I think that I’ve killed the sheriff,” he said simply.  “I’m going up to my room to put some things together; and I’ll go into town with any man who wishes to arrest me.  Decide that between yourselves.”

With that he turned and walked away with a step as deliberately unhurried as his approach had been.  The manner of the boy was more terrible than the thing he had done.  Twice he had shocked them on the same afternoon.  And they were just beginning to realize that the shell of boyhood was being ripped away from Terence Colby.  Terry Hollis, son of Black Jack, was being revealed to them.

The men received the news with utter bewilderment.  The sheriff was as formidable in the opinion of the mountains as some Achilles.  It was incredible that he should have fallen.  And naturally a stern murmur rose:  “Foul play!”

Since the first vigilante days there has been no sound in all the West so dreaded as that deep-throated murmur of angry, honest men.  That murmur from half a dozen law-abiding citizens will put the fear of death in the hearts of a hundred outlaws.  The rumble grew, spread:  “Foul play.”  And they began to look to one another, these men of action.

Only Elizabeth was silent.  She rose to her feet, as tall as her brother, without an emotion on her face.  And her brother would never forget her.

“It seems that you’ve won, Vance.  It seems that blood will out, after all.  The time is not quite up—­and you win the bet!”

Vance shook his head as though in protest and struck his hand across his face.  He dared not let her see the joy that contorted his features.  Triumph here on the very verge of defeat!  It misted his eyes.  Joy gave wings to his thoughts.  He was the master of the valley.

“But—­you’ll think before you do anything, Elizabeth?”

“I’ve done my thinking already—­twenty-four years of it.  I’m going to do what I promised I’d do.”

“And that?”

“You’ll see and hear in time.  What’s yonder?”

The men were rising, one after another, and bunching together.  Before Vance could answer, there was a confusion in the hall, running feet here and there.  They heard the hard, shrill voice of Wu Chi chattering directions and the guttural murmurs of his fellow servants as they answered.  Someone ran out into the hall and came back to the huddling, stirring crowd in the living room.

“He’s not dead—­but close to it.  Maybe die any minute—­maybe live through it!”

That was the report.

“We’ll get young Hollis and hold him to see how the sheriff comes out.”

“Aye, we’ll get him!”

All at once they boiled into action and the little crowd of men thrust for the big doors that led into the hall.  They cast the doors back and came directly upon the tall, white-headed figure of Gainor.