Black Jack

There was no Kate at breakfast the next morning.  She had left the house at dawn with her horse.

“May be night before she comes back,” said her father.  “No telling how far she’ll go.  May be tomorrow before she shows up.”

It made Terry thoughtful for reasons which he himself did not understand.  He had a peculiar desire to climb into the saddle on El Sangre and trail her across the hills.  But he was very quickly brought to the reality that if he chose to make himself a laboring man and work out the three hundred dollars he would not take back from Joe Pollard, the big man was now disposed to make him live up to his word.

He was sent out with an ax and ordered to attack a stout grove of the pines for firewood.  But he quickly resigned himself to the work.  Whatever gloom he felt disappeared with the first stroke that sunk the edge deep into the soft wood.  The next stroke broke out a great chip, and a resinous, fresh smell came up to him.

He made quick work of the first tree, working the morning chill out of his body, and as he warmed to his labor, the long muscles of arms and shoulders limbering, the blows fell in a shower.  The sturdy pines fell one by one, and he stripped them of branches with long, sweeping blows of the ax, shearing off several at a stroke.  He was not an expert axman, but he knew enough about that cunning craft to make his blows tell, and a continual desire to sing welled up in him.

Once, to breathe after the heavy labor, he stepped to the edge of the little grove.  The sun was sparkling in the tops of the trees; the valley dropped far away below him.  He felt as one who stands on the top of the world.  There was flash and gleam of red; there stood El Sangre in the corral below him; the stallion raised his head and whinnied in reply to the master’s whistle.

A great, sweet peace dropped on the heart of Terry Hollis.  Now he felt he was at home.  He went back to his work.

But in the midmorning Joe Pollard came to him and grunted at the swath Terry had driven into the heart of the lodgepole pines.

“I wanted junk for the fire,” he protested; “not enough to build a house.  But I got a little errand for you in town, Terry.  You can give El Sangre a stretching down the road?”

“Of course.”

It gave Terry a little prickling feeling of resentment to be ordered about.  But he swallowed the resentment.  After all, this was labor of his own choosing, though he could not but wonder a little, because Joe Pollard no longer pressed him to take back the money he had lost.  And he reverted to the talk of Kate the night before.  That three hundred dollars was now an anchor holding him to the service of her father.  And he remembered, with a touch of dismay, that it might take a year of ordinary wages to save three hundred dollars.  Or more than a year.

It was impossible to be downhearted long, however.  The morning was as fresh as a rose, and the four men came out of the house with Pollard to see El Sangre dancing under the saddle.  Terry received the commission for a box of shotgun cartridges and the money to pay for them.

“And the change,” said Pollard liberally, “don’t worry me none.  Step around and make yourself to home in town.  About coming back—­well, when I send a man into town, I figure on him making a day of it.  S’long, Terry!”

“Hey,” called Slim, “is El Sangre gun-shy?”

“I suppose so.”

The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off.

“Here’s to try him.”

The gun flashed into Slim’s hand and boomed.  El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise.  The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship.

“But what’ll he do if you pull a gun yourself?” asked Joe Pollard, showing a sudden concern.

“He’ll stand for it—­long enough,” said Terry.  “Try him!”

There was a devil in Slim that morning.  He snatched up a shining bit of quartz and hurled it—­straight at El Sangre!  There was no warning—­just a jerk of the arm and the stone came flashing.

“Try your gun—­on that!”

The words were torn off short.  The heavy gun had twitched into the hand of Terry, exploded, and the gleaming quartz puffed into a shower of bright particles that danced toward the earth.  El Sangre flew into a paroxysm of educated bucking of the most advanced school.  The steady voice of Terry Hollis brought him at last to a quivering stop.  The rider was stiff in the saddle, his mouth a white, straight line.

He shoved his revolver deliberately back into the holster.

The four men had drawn together, still muttering with wonder.  Luck may have had something to do with the success of that snapshot, but it was such a feat of marksmanship as would be remembered and talked about.

“Dugan!” said Terry huskily.

Slim lunged forward, but he was ill at ease.

“Well, kid?”

“It seemed to me,” said Terry, “that you threw that stone at El Sangre.  I hope I’m wrong?”

“Maybe,” growled Slim.  He flashed a glance at his companions, not at all eager to push this quarrel forward to a conclusion in spite of his known prowess.  He had been a little irritated by the adulation which had been shown to the son of Black Jack the night before.  He was still more irritated by the display of fine riding.  For horsemanship and clever gunplay were the two main feathers in the cap of Slim Dugan.  He had thrown the stone simply to test the qualities of this new member of the gang; the snapshot had stunned him.  So he glanced at his companions.  If they smiled, it meant that they took the matter lightly.  But they were not smiling; they met his glance with expressions of uniform gravity.  To torment a nervous horse is something which does not fit with the ways of the men of the mountain desert, even at their roughest.  Besides, there was an edgy irritability about Slim Dugan which had more than once won him black looks.  They wanted to see him tested now by a foeman who seemed worthy of his mettle.  And Slim saw that common desire in his flickering side glance.  He turned a cold eye on Terry.

“Maybe,” he repeated.  “But maybe I meant to see what you could do with a gun.”

“I thought so,” said Terry through his teeth.  “Steady, boy!”

El Sangre became a rock for firmness.  There was not a quiver in one of his long, racing muscles.  It was a fine tribute to the power of the rider.

“I thought you might be trying out my gun,” repeated Terry.  “Are you entirely satisfied?”

He leaned a little in the saddle.  Slim moistened his lips.  It was a hard question to answer.  The man in the saddle had become a quivering bundle of nerves; Slim could see the twitching of the lips, and he knew what it meant.  Instinctively he fingered one of the broad bright buttons of his shirt.  A man who could hit a glittering thrown stone would undoubtedly be able to hit that stationary button.  The thought had elements in it that were decidedly unpleasant.  But he had gone too far.  He dared not recede now if he wished to hold up his head again among his fellows—­and fear of death had never yet controlled the actions of Slim Dugan.

“I dunno,” he remarked carelessly.  “I’m a sort of curious gent.  It takes more than one lucky shot to make me see the light.”

The lips of Terry worked a moment.  The companions of Slim Dugan scattered of one accord to either side.  There was no doubting the gravity of the crisis which had so suddenly sprung up.  As for Joe Pollard, he stood in the doorway in the direct line projected from Terry to Slim and beyond.  There was very little sentiment in the body of Joe Pollard.  Slim had always been a disturbing factor in the gang.  Why not?  He bit his lips thoughtfully.

“Dugan,” said Terry at length, “curiosity is a very fine quality, and I admire a man who has it.  Greatly.  Now, you may notice that my gun is in the holster again.  Suppose you try me again and see how fast I can get it out of the leather—­and hit a target.”

The challenge was entirely direct.  There was a perceptible tightening in the muscles of the men.  They were nerving themselves to hear the crack of a gun at any instant.  Slim Dugan, gathering his nerve power, fenced for a moment more of time.  His narrowing eyes were centering on one spot on Terry’s body—­the spot at which he would attempt to drive his bullet, and he chose the pocket of Terry’s shirt.  It steadied him, gave him his old self-confidence to have found that target.  His hand and his brain grew steady, and the thrill of the fighter’s love of battle entered him.

“What sort of a target d’you want?” he asked.

“I’m not particular,” said Hollis.  “Anything will do for me—­even a button!”

It jarred home to Slim—­the very thought he had had a moment before.  He felt his certainty waver, slip from him.  Then the voice of Pollard boomed out at them: 

“Keep them guns in their houses!  You hear me talk?  The first man that makes a move I’m going to drill!  Slim, get back into the house.  Terry, you damn meateater, git on down that hill!”

Terry did not move, but Slim Dugan stirred uneasily, turned, and said:  “It’s up to you, chief.  But I’ll see this through sooner or later!”

And not until then did Terry turn his horse and go down the hill without a backward look.