Black Jack

Gainor’s dignity split the force of their rush.  They recoiled as water strikes on a rock and divides into two meager swirls.  And when one or two went past him on either side, he recalled them.

“Boys, there seems to be a little game on hand.  What is it?”

Something repelling, coldly inquiring in his attitude and in his voice.  They would have gone on if they could, but they could not.  He held them with a force of knowledge of things that they did not know.  They were remembering that this man had gone out with the sheriff to meet, apparently, his death.  And yet Gainor, a well-tried friend of the sheriff, seemed unexcited.  They had to answer his question, and how could they lie when he saw them rushing through a door with revolvers coming to brown, skillful hands?  It was someone from the rear who made the confession.

“We’re going to get young Black Jack!”

That was it.  The speech came out like the crack of a gun, clearing the atmosphere.  It told every man exactly what was in his own mind, felt but not confessed.  They had no grudge against Terry, really.  But they were determined to hang the son of Black Jack.  Had it been a lesser deed, they might have let him go.  But his victim was too distinguished in their society.  He had struck down Joe Minter; the ghost of the great Black Jack himself seemed to have stalked out among them.

“You’re going to get young Terry Hollis?” interpreted Gainor, and his voice rose and rang over them.  Those who had slipped past him on either side came back and faced him.  In the distance Elizabeth had not stirred.  Vance kept watching her face.  It was cold as ice, unreadable.  He could not believe that she was allowing this lynching party to organize under her own roof—­a lynching party aimed at Terence.  It began to grow in him that he had gained a greater victory than he imagined.

“If you aim at Terry,” went on Gainor, his voice even louder, “you’ll have to aim at me, too.  There’s going to be no lynching bee, my friends!”

The women had crowded back in the room.  They made a little bank of stir and murmur around Elizabeth.

“Gentlemen,” said Gainor, shaking his white hair back again in his imposing way, “there has been no murder.  The sheriff is not going to die.  There has been a disagreement between two men of honor.  The sheriff is now badly wounded.  I think that is all.  Does anybody want to ask questions about what has happened?”

There was a bustle in the group of men.  They were putting away the weapons, not quite sure what they could do next.

“I am going to tell you exactly what has happened,” said Gainor.  “You heard the unfortunate things that passed at the table today.  What the sheriff said was not said as an insult; but under the circumstances it became necessary for Terence Hollis to resent what he had heard.  As a man of honor he could not do otherwise.  You all agree with me in that?”

They grunted a grudging assent.  There were ways and ways of looking at such things.  The way of Gainor was a generation old.  But there was something so imposing about the old fellow, something which breathed the very spirit of honor and fair play, that they could not argue the point.

“Accordingly Mr. Hollis sent for the sheriff.  Not to bring him outdoors and shoot him down in a sudden gunplay, nor to take advantage of him through a surprise—­as a good many men would have been tempted to do, my friends, for the sheriff has a wide reputation as a handler of guns of all sorts.  No, sir, he sent for me also, and he told us frankly that the bad blood between him and the sheriff must be spent.  You understand?  By the Lord, my friends, I admired the fine spirit of the lad.  He expected to be shot rather than to drop the sheriff.  I could tell that by his expression.  But his eye did not falter.  It carried me back to the old days—­to old days, sirs!”

There was not a murmur in the entire room.  The eye of Elizabeth Cornish was fire.  Whether with anger or pride, Vance could not tell.  But he began to worry.

“We went over to the group of silver spruce near the house.  I gave them the directions.  They came and stood together, back to back, with their revolvers not drawn.  They began to walk away in opposite directions at my command.

“When I called ‘Turn,’ they wheeled.  My gun was ready to shoot down the first man guilty of foul play—­but there was no attempt to turn too soon, before the signal.  They whirled, snatching out their guns—­and the revolver of the sheriff hung in his clothes!”

A groan from the little crowd.

“Although, upon my word,” said Gainor, “I do not think that the sheriff could have possibly brought out his gun as swiftly as Terence Hollis did.  His whirl was like the spin of a top, or the snap of a whiplash, and as he snapped about, the revolver was in his hand, not raised to draw a bead, but at his hip.  The sheriff set his teeth—­but Terry did not fire!”

A bewildered murmur from the crowd.

“No, my friends,” cried Gainor, his voice quivering, “he did not fire.  He dropped the muzzle of his gun—­and waited.  By heaven, my heart went out to him.  It was magnificent.”

The thin, strong hand of Elizabeth closed on the arm of Vance.  “That was a Colby who did that!” she whispered.

“The sheriff gritted his teeth,” went on Gainor, “and tore out his gun.  All this pause had been such a space as is needed for an eyelash to flicker twice.  Out shot the sheriff’s Colt.  And then, and not until then, did the muzzle of Terry’s revolver jerk up.  Even after that delay he beat the sheriff to the trigger.  The two shots came almost together, but the sheriff was already falling when he pulled his trigger, and his aim was wild.

“He dropped on one side, the revolver flying out of his hand.  I started forward, and then I stopped.  By heaven, the sheriff had stretched out his arm and picked up his gun again.  He was not through fighting.

“A bulldog spirit, you say?  Yes!  And what could I do?  It was the sheriff’s right to keep on fighting as long as he wished.  And it was the right of Terence to shoot the man full of holes the minute his hand touched the revolver again.

“I could only stand still.  I saw the sheriff raise his revolver.  It was an effort of agony.  But he was still trying to kill.  And I nerved myself and waited for the explosion of the gun of Terence.  I say I nerved myself for that shock, but the gun did not explode.  I looked at him in wonder.  My friends, he was putting up his gun and quietly looking the sheriff in the eye!

“At that I shouted to him, I don’t know what.  I shouted to the sheriff not to fire.  Too late.  The muzzle of the gun was already tilting up, the barrel was straightening.  And then the gun fell from Minter’s hand and he dropped on his side.  His strength had failed him at the last moment.

“But I say, sirs, that what Terence Hollis did was the finest thing I have ever seen in my life, and I have seen fine things done by gentlemen before.  There may be unpleasant associations with the name of Terry’s father.  I, for one, shall never carry over those associations to the son.  Never!  He has my hand, my respect, my esteem in every detail.  He is a gentleman, my friends!  There is nothing for us to do.  If the sheriff is unfortunate and the wound should prove fatal, Terence will give himself up to the law.  If he lives, he will be the first to tell you to keep your hands off the boy!”

He ended in a little silence.  But there was no appreciative burst of applause from those who heard him.  The fine courage of Terence was, to them, merely the iron nerve of the man-killer, the keen eye and the judicious mind which knew that the sheriff would collapse before he fired his second shot.  And his courtesy before the first shot was simply the surety of the man who knew that no matter what advantage he gave to his enemy, his own speed of hand would more than make up for it.

Gainor, reading their minds, paid no more heed to them.  He went straight across the room and took the hand of Elizabeth.

“Dear Miss Cornish,” he said so that all could hear, “I congratulate you for the man you have given us in Terence Hollis.”

Vance, watching, saw the tears of pleasure brighten the eyes of his sister.

“You are very kind,” she said.  “But now I must see Sheriff Minter and be sure that everything is done for him.”

It seemed that the party took this as a signal for dismissal.  As she went across the room, there were a dozen hasty adieus, and soon the guests were streaming towards the doors.

Vance and Elizabeth and Gainor went to the sheriff.  He had been installed in a guest room.  His eyes were closed, his arms outstretched.  A thick, telltale bandage was wrapped about his breast.  And Wu Chi, skillful in such matters from a long experience, was sliding about the room in his whispering slippers.  The sheriff did not open his eyes when Elizabeth tried his pulse.  It was faint, but steady.

He had been shot through the body and the lungs grazed, for as he breathed there was a faint bubble of blood that grew and swelled and burst on his lips at every breath.  But he lived, and he would live unless there were an unnecessary change for the worse.  They went softly out of the room again.  Elizabeth was grave.  Mr. Gainor took her hand.

“I think I know what people are saying now, and what they will say hereafter.  If Terry’s father were any other than Hollis, this affair would soon he forgotten, except as a credit to him.  But even as it is, he will live this matter down.  I want to tell you again, Miss Cornish, that you have reason to be proud of him.  He is the sort of man I should be proud to have in my own family.  Madam, good-by.  And if there is anything in which I can be of service to you or to Terence, call on me at any time and to any extent.”

And he went down the hall with a little swagger.  Mr. Gainor felt that he had risen admirably to a great situation.  As a matter of fact, he had.

Elizabeth turned to Vance.

“I wish you’d find Terence,” she said, “and tell him that I’m waiting for him in the library.”