Black Jack

When the door closed on her, Terry remained standing in the middle of the room watching the flame in the oil lamp she had lighted flare and rise at the corner, and then steady down to an even line of yellow; but he was not seeing it; he was listening to that peculiar silence in the house.  It seemed to have spread over the entire village, and he heard no more of those casual noises which he had noticed on his coming.

He went to the window and raised it to let whatever wind was abroad enter the musty warmth of the room.  He raised the sash with stealthy caution, wondering at his own stealthiness.  And he was oddly glad when the window rose without a squeak.  He leaned out and looked up and down the street.  It was unchanged.  Across the way a door flung open, a child darted out with shrill laughter and dodged about the corner of the house, escaping after some mischief.

After that the silence again, except that before long a murmur began on the veranda beneath him where the half-dozen obscure figures had been sitting when he entered.  Why should they be mumbling to themselves?  He thought he could distinguish the voice of the widow Rickson among the rest, but he shrugged that idle thought away and turned back into his room.  He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his boots, but the minute they were off he was ill at ease.  There was something oppressive about the atmosphere of this rickety old hotel.  What sort of a world was this he had entered, with its whispers, its cold glances?

He cast himself back on his bed, determined to be at ease.  Nevertheless, his heart kept bumping absurdly.  Now, Terry began to grow angry.  With the feeling that there was danger in the air of Craterville—­for him—­there came a nervous setting of the muscles, a desire to close on someone and throttle the secret of this hostility.  At this point he heard a light tapping at the door.  Terry sat bolt upright on the bed.

There are all kinds of taps.  There are bold, heavy blows on the door that mean danger without; there are careless, conversational rappings; but this was a furtive tap, repeated after a pause as though it contained a code message.

First there was a leap of fear—­then cold quiet of the nerves.  He was surprised at himself.  He found himself stepping into whatever adventure lay toward him with the lifting of the spirits.  It was a stimulus.

He called cheerfully:  “Come in!”

And the moment he had spoken he was off the bed, noiselessly, and half the width of the room away.  It had come to him as he spoke that it might be well to shift from the point from which his voice had been heard.

The door opened swiftly—­so swiftly was it opened and closed that it made a faint whisper in the air, oddly like a sigh.  And there was no click of the lock either in the opening or the closing.  Which meant an incalculably swift and dexterous manipulation with the fingers.  Terry found himself facing a short-throated man with heavy shoulders; he wore a shapeless black hat bunched on his head as though the whole hand had grasped the crown and shoved the hat into place.  It sat awkwardly to one side.  And the hat typified the whole man.  There was a sort of shifty readiness about him.  His eyes flashed in the lamplight as they glanced at the bed, and then flicked back toward Terry.  And a smile began somewhere in his face and instantly went out.  It was plain that he had understood the maneuver.

He continued to survey Terry insolently for a moment without announcing himself.  Then he stated:  “You’re him, all right!”

“Am I?” said Terry, regarding this unusual visitor with increasing suspicion.  “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

The big-shouldered man raised a stubby hand.  He had an air of one who deprecates, and at the same time lets another into a secret.  He moved across the room with short steps that made no sound, and gave him a peculiar appearance of drifting rather than walking.  He picked up a chair and placed it down on the rug beside the bed and seated himself in it.

Aside from the words he had spoken, since he entered the room he had made no more noise than a phantom.

“You’re him, all right,” he repeated, balancing back in the chair.  But he gathered his toes under him, so that he remained continually poised in spite of the seeming awkwardness of his position.

“Who am I?” asked Terry.

“Why, Black Jack’s kid.  It’s printed in big type all over you.”

His keen eyes continued to bore at Terry as though he were striving to read features beneath a mask.  Terry could see his visitor’s face more clearly now.  It was square, with a powerfully muscled jaw and features that had a battered look.  Suddenly he teetered forward in his chair and dropped his elbows aggressively on his knees.

“D’you know what they’re talking about downstairs?”

“Haven’t the slightest idea.”

“You ain’t!  The old lady is trying to fix up a bad time for you.”

“She’s raising a crowd?”

“Doing her best.  I dunno what it’ll come to.  The boys are stirring a little.  But I think it’ll be all words and no action.  Four-flushers, most of ’em.  Besides, they say you bumped old Minter for a goal; and they don’t like the idea of messing up with you.  They’ll just talk.  If they try anything besides their talk—­well, you and me can fix ’em!”

Terry slipped into the only other chair which the room provided, but he slid far down in it, so that his holster was free and the gun butt conveniently under his hand.

“You seem a charitable sort,” he said.  “Why do you throw in with me?”

“And you don’t know who I am?” said the other.

He chuckled noiselessly, his mouth stretching to remarkable proportions.

“I’m sorry,” said Terry.

“Why, kid, I’m Denver.  I’m your old man’s pal, Denver!  I’m him that done the Silver Junction job with old Black Jack, and a lot more jobs, when you come to that!”

He laughed again.  “They were getting sort of warm for me out in the big noise.  So I grabbed me a side-door Pullman and took a trip out to the old beat.  And think of bumping into Black Jack’s boy right off the bat!”

He became more sober.  “Say, kid, ain’t you got a glad hand for me?  Ain’t you ever heard Black Jack talk?”

“He died,” said Terry soberly, “before I was a year old.”

“The hell!” murmured the other.  “The hell!  Poor kid.  That was a rotten lay, all right.  If I’d known about that, I’d of—­but I didn’t.  Well, let it go.  Here we are together.  And you’re the sort of a sidekick I need.  Black Jack, we’re going to trim this town to a fare-thee-well!”

“My name is Hollis,” said Terry.  “Terence Hollis.”

“Terence hell,” snorted the other.  “You’re Black Jack’s kid, ain’t you?  And ain’t his moniker good enough for you to work under?  Why, kid, that’s a trademark most of us would give ten thousand cash for!”

He broke off and regarded Terry with a growing satisfaction.

“You’re his kid, all right.  This is just the way Black Jack would of sat—­cool as ice—­with a gang under him talking about stretching his neck.  And now, bo, hark to me sing!  I got the job fixed and—­But wait a minute.  What you been doing all these years?  Black Jack was known when he was your age!”

With a peculiar thrill of awe and of aversion Terry watched the face of the man who had known his father so well.  He tried to make himself believe that twenty-four years ago Denver might have been quite another type of man.  But it was impossible to re-create that face other than as a bulldog in the human flesh.  The craft and the courage of a fighter were written large in those features.

“I’ve been leading—­a quiet life,” he said gently.

The other grinned.  “Sure—­quiet,” he chuckled.  “And then you wake up and bust Minter for your first crack.  You began late, son, but you may go far.  Pretty tricky with the gat, eh?”

He nodded in anticipatory admiration.

“Old Minter had a name.  Ain’t I had my run-in with him?  He was smooth with a cannon.  And fast as a snake’s tongue.  But they say you beat him fair and square.  Well, well, I call that a snappy start in the world!”

Terry was silent, but his companion refused to be chilled.

“That’s Black Jack over again,” he said.  “No wind about what he’d done.  No jabber about what he was going to do.  But when you wanted something done, go to Black Jack.  Bam!  There it was done clean for you and no talk afterward.  Oh, he was a bird, was your old man.  And you take after him, right enough!”

A voice rose in Terry.  He wanted to argue.  He wanted to explain.  It was not that he felt any consuming shame because he was the son of Black Jack Hollis.  But there was a sort of foster parenthood to which he owed a clean-minded allegiance—­the fiction of the Colby blood.  He had worshipped that thought for twenty years.  He could not discard it in an instant.

Denver was breezing on in his quick, husky voice, so carefully toned that it barely served to reach Terry.

“I been waiting for a pal like you, kid.  And here’s where we hit it off.  You don’t know much about the game, I guess?  Neither did Black Jack.  As a peterman he was a loud ha-ha; as a damper-getter he was just an amateur; as a heel or a houseman, well, them things were just outside him.  When it come to the gorilla stuff, he was there a million, though.  And when there was a call for fast, quick, soft work, Black Jack was the man.  Kid, I can see that you’re cut right on his pattern.  And here’s where you come in with me.  Right off the bat there’s going to be velvet.  Later on I’ll educate you.  In three months you’ll be worth your salt.  Are you on?”

He hardly waited for Terry to reply.  He rambled on.

“I got a plant that can’t fail to blossom into the long green, kid.  The store safe.  You know what’s in it?  I’ll tell you.  Ten thousand cold.  Ten thousand bucks, boy.  Well, well, and how did it get there?  Because a lot of the boobs around here have put their spare cash in the safe for safekeeping!”

He tilted his chin and indulged in another of his yawning, silent bursts of laughter.

“And you never seen a peter like it.  Tin, kid, tin.  I could turn it inside out with a can opener.  But I ain’t long on a kit just now.  I’m on the hog for fair, as a matter of fact.  Well, I don’t need a kit.  I got some sawdust and I can make the soup as pretty as you ever seen.  We’ll blow the safe, kid, and then we’ll float.  Are you on?”

He paused, grinning with expectation, his face gradually becoming blank as he saw no response in Terry.

“As nearly as I can make out—­because most of the slang is new to me,” said Terry, “you want to dynamite the store safe and—­”

“Who said sawdust?  Soup, kid, soup!  I want to blow the door off the peter, not the roof off the house.  Say, who d’you think I am, a boob?”

“I understand, then.  Nitroglycerin?  Denver, I’m not with you.  It’s mighty good of you to ask me to join in—­but that isn’t my line of work.”

The yegg raised an expostulatory hand, but Terry went on:  “I’m going to keep straight, Denver.”

It seemed as though this simple tiding took the breath from Denver.

“Ah!” he nodded at length.  “You playing up a new line.  No strong-arm stuff except when you got to use it.  Going to try scratching, kid?  Is that it, or some other kind of slick stuff?”

“I mean what I say, Denver.  I’m going straight.”

The yegg shook his head, bewildered.  “Say,” he burst out suddenly, “ain’t you Black Jack’s kid?”

“I’m his son,” said Terry.

“All right.  You’ll come to it.  It’s in the blood, Black Jack.  You can’t get away from it.”

Terry tugged his shirt open at the throat; he was stifling.  “Perhaps,” he said.

“It’s the easy way,” went on Denver.  “Well, maybe you ain’t ripe yet, but when you are, tip me off.  Gimme a ring and I’ll be with you.”

“One more thing.  You’re broke, Denver.  And I suppose you need what’s in that safe.  But if you take it, the widow will be ruined.  She runs the hotel and the store, too, you know.”

“Why, you poor boob,” groaned Denver, “don’t you know she’s the old dame that’s trying to get you mobbed?”

“I suppose so.  But she was pretty fond of the sheriff, you know.  I don’t blame her for carrying a grudge.  Now, about the money, Denver; I happen to have a little with me.  Take what you want.”

Denver took the proffered money without a word, counted it with a deftly stabbing forefinger, and shoved the wad into his hip pocket.

“All right,” he said, “this’ll sort of sweeten the pot.  You don’t need it?”

“I’ll get along without it.  And you won’t break the safe?”

“Hell!” grunted Denver.  “Does it hang on that?”

Terry leaned forward in his chair.

“Denver, don’t break that safe!”

“You kind of say that as if you was boss, maybe,” sneered Denver.

“I am,” said Terry, “as far as this goes.”

“How’ll you stop me, kid?  Sit up all night and nurse the safe?”

“No.  But I’ll follow you, Denver.  And I’ll get you.  You understand?  I’ll stay on your trail till I have you.”

Again there was a long moment of silence, then, “Black Jack!” muttered
Denver.  “You’re like his ghost!  I think you’d get me, right enough!  Well,
I’ll call it off.  This fifty will help me along a ways.”

At the door he whirled sharply on Terence Hollis.  “How much have you got left?” he asked.

“Enough,” said Terry.

“Then lemme have another fifty, will you?”

“I’m sorry.  I can’t quite manage it.”

“Make it twenty-five, then.”

“Can’t do that either, Denver.  I’m very sorry.”

“Hell, man!  Are you a short sport?  I got a long jump before me.  Ain’t you got any credit around this town?”

“I—­not very much, I’m afraid.”

“You’re kidding me,” scowled Denver.  “That wasn’t Black Jack’s way.  From his shoes to his skin everything he had belonged to his partners.  His ghost’ll haunt you if you’re turning me down, kid.  Why, ain’t you the heir of a rich rancher over the hills?  Ain’t that what I been told?”

“I was,” said Terry, “until today.”

“Ah!  You got turned out for beaning Minter?”

Terry remained silent.

“Without a cent?”

Suddenly the pudgy arm of Denver shot out and his finger pointed into Terry’s face.

“You damn fool!  This fifty is the last cent you got in the world!”

“Not at all,” said Terry calmly.

“You lie!” Denver struck his knuckles across his forehead.  “And I was going to trim you.  Black Jack, I didn’t know you was as white as this.  Fifty?  Pal, take it back!”

He forced the money into Terry’s pocket.

“And take some more.  Here; lemme stake you.  I been pulling a sob story, but I’m in the clover, Black Jack.  Gimme your last cent, will you?  Kid, here’s a hundred, two hundred—­say what you want.”

“Not a cent—­nothing,” said Terry, but he was deeply moved.

Denver thoughtfully restored the money to his wallet.

“You’re white,” he said gently.  “And you’re straight as they come.  Keep it up if you can.  I know damned well that you can’t.  I’ve seen ’em try before.  But they always slip.  Keep it up, Black Jack, but if you ever change your mind, lemme know.  I’ll be handy.  Here’s luck!”

And he was gone as he had entered, with a whish of the swiftly moved door in the air, and no click of the lock.