Black Jack

The fine gray head, the hawklike, aristocratic face, and the superior manner of Waters procured him admission to many places where the ordinary man was barred.  It secured him admission on this day to the office of Sheriff McGuire, though McGuire had refused to see his best friends.

A proof of the perturbed state of his mind was that he accepted the proffered fresh cigar of Waters without comment or thanks.  His mental troubles made him crisp to the point of rudeness.

“I’m a tolerable busy man, Mr.—­Waters, I think they said your name was.  Tell me what you want, and make it short, if you don’t mind.”

“Not a bit, sir.  I rarely waste many words.  But I think on this occasion we have a subject in common that will interest you.”

Waters had come on what he felt was more or less of a wild-goose chase.  The great object was to keep young Hollis from coming in contact with Elizabeth Cornish again.  One such interview, as Vance Cornish had assured him, would restore the boy to the ranch, make him the heir to the estate, and turn Vance and his high ambitions out of doors.  Also, the high commission of Mr. Waters would cease.  With no plan in mind, he had rushed to the point of contact, and hoped to find some scheme after he arrived there.  As for Vance, the latter would promise money; otherwise he was a shaken wreck of a man and of no use.  But with money, Mr. Waters felt that he had the key to this world and he was not without hope.

Three hours in the hotel of the town gave him many clues.  Three hours of casual gossip on the veranda of the same hotel had placed him in possession of about every fact, true or presumably true, that could be learned, and with the knowledge a plan sprang into his fertile brain.  The worn, worried face of the sheriff had been like water on a dry field; he felt that the seed of his plan would immediately spring up and bear fruit.

“And that thing we got in common?” said the sheriff tersely.

“It’s this—­young Terry Hollis.”

He let that shot go home without a follow-up and was pleased to see the sheriff’s forehead wrinkle with pain.

“He’s like a ghost hauntin’ me,” declared McGuire, with an attempted laugh that failed flatly.  “Every time I turn around, somebody throws this Hollis in my face.  What is it now?”

“Do you mind if I run over the situation briefly, as I understand it?”

“Fire away!”

The sheriff settled back; he had forgotten his rush of business.

“As I understand it, you, Mr. McGuire, have the reputation of keeping your county clean of crime and scenes of violence.”

“Huh!” grunted the sheriff.

“Everyone says,” went on Waters, “that no one except a man named Minter has done such work in meeting the criminal element on their own ground.  You have kept your county peaceful.  I believe that is true?”

“Huh,” repeated McGuire.  “Kind of soft-soapy, but it ain’t all wrong.  They ain’t been much doing in these parts since I started to clean things up.”

“Until recently,” suggested Waters.

The face of the sheriff darkened.  “Well?” he asked aggressively.

“And then two crimes in a row.  First, a gun brawl in broad daylight—­ young Hollis shot a fellow named—­er—­”

“Larrimer,” snapped the sheriff viciously.  “It was a square fight.  Larrimer forced the scrap.”

“I suppose so.  Nevertheless, it was a gunfight.  And next, two men raid the bank in the middle of your town, and in spite of you and of special guards, blow the door off a safe and gut the safe of its contents.  Am I right?”

The sheriff merely scowled.

“It ain’t clear to me yet,” he declared, “how you and me get together on any topic we got in common.  Looks sort of like we was just hearing one old yarn over and over agin.”

“My dear sir,” smiled Waters, “you have not allowed me to come to the crux of my story.  Which is:  that you and I have one great object in common—­to dispose of this Terry Hollis, for I take it for granted that if you were to get rid of him the people who criticize now would do nothing but cheer you.  Am I right?”

“If I could get him,” sighed the sheriff.  “Mr. Waters, gimme time and I’ll get him, right enough.  But the trouble with the gents around these parts is that they been spoiled.  I cleaned up all the bad ones so damn quick that they think I can do the same with every crook that comes along.  But this Hollis is a slick one, I tell you.  He covers his tracks.  Laughs in my face, and admits what he done, when he talks to me, like he done the other day.  But as far as evidence goes, I ain’t got anything on him—­yet.  But I’ll get it!”

“And in the meantime,” said Waters brutally, “they say that you’re getting old.”

The sheriff became a brilliant purple.

“Do they say that?” he muttered.  “That’s gratitude for you, Mr. Waters!  After what I’ve done for ’em—­they say I’m getting old just because I can’t get anything on this slippery kid right off!”

He changed from purple to gray.  To fail now and lose his position meant a ruined life.  And Waters knew what was in his mind.

“But if you got Terry Hollis, they’d be stronger behind you than ever.”

“Ah, wouldn’t they, though?  Tell me what a great gent I was quick as a flash.”

He sneered at the thought of public opinion.

“And you see,” said Waters, “where I come in is that I have a plan for getting this Hollis you desire so much.”

“You do?” He rose and grasped the arm of Waters.  “You do?”

Waters nodded.

“It’s this way.  I understand that he killed Larrimer, and Larrimer’s older brother is the one who is rousing public opinion against you.  Am I right?”

“The dog!  Yes, you’re right.”

“Then get Larrimer to send Terry Hollis an invitation to come down into town and meet him face to face in a gun fight.  I understand this Hollis is a daredevil sort and wouldn’t refuse an invitation of that nature.  He’d have to respond or else lose his growing reputation as a maneater.”

“Maneater?  Why, Bud Larrimer wouldn’t be more’n a mouthful for him.  Sure he’d come to town.  And he’d clean up quick.  But Larrimer ain’t fool enough to send such an invite.”

“You don’t understand me,” persisted Waters patiently.  “What I mean is this.  Larrimer sends the challenge, if you wish to call it that.  He takes up a certain position.  Say in a public place.  You and your men, if you wish, are posted nearby, but out of view when young Hollis comes.  When Terry Hollis arrives, the moment he touches a gun butt, you fill him full of lead and accuse him of using unfair play against Larrimer.  Any excuse will do.  The public want an end of young Hollis.  They won’t be particular with their questions.”

He found it difficult to meet the narrowed eyes of the sheriff.

“What you want me to do,” said the sheriff, with slow effort, “is to set a trap, get Hollis into it, and then—­murder him?”

“A brutal way of putting it, my dear fellow.”

“A true way,” said the sheriff.

But he was thinking, and Waters waited.

When he spoke, his voice was soft enough to blend with the sheriff’s thoughts without actually interrupting them.

“You’re not a youngster any more, sheriff, and if you lose out here, your reputation is gone for good.  You’ll not have the time to rebuild it.  Here is a chance for you not only to stop the evil rumors, but to fortify your past record with a new bit of work that will make people talk of you.  They don’t really care how you do it.  They won’t split hairs about method.  They want Hollis put out of the way.  I say, cache yourself away.  Let Hollis come to meet Larrimer in a private room.  You can arrange it with Larrimer yourself later on.  You shoot from concealment the moment Hollis shows his face.  It can be said that Larrimer did the shooting, and beat Hollis to the draw.  The glory of it will bribe Larrimer.”

The sheriff shook his head.  Waters leaned forward.

“My friend,” he said.  “I represent in this matter a wealthy man to whom the removal of Terry Hollis will be worth money.  Five thousand dollars cash, sheriff!”

The sheriff moistened his lips and his eyes grew wild.  He had lived long and worked hard and saved little.  Yet he shook his head.

“Ten thousand dollars,” whispered Waters.  “Cash!”

The sheriff groaned, rose, paced the room, and then slumped into a chair.

“Tell Bud Larrimer I want to see him,” he said.  The following letter, which was received at the house of Joe Pollard, was indeed a gem of English: 

MR. TERRY BLACK JACK: 

Sir, I got this to say.  Since you done my brother dirt I bin looking for a chans to get even and I ain’t seen any chanses coming my way so Ime going to make one which I mean that Ile be waiting for you in town today and if you don’t come Ile let the boys know that you aint only an ornery mean skunk but your a yaller hearted dog also which I beg to remain

Yours very truly,

Bud Larrimer.

Terry Hollis read the letter and tossed it with laughter to Phil Marvin, who sat cross-legged on the floor mending a saddle, and Phil and the rest of the boys shook their heads over it.

“What I can’t make out,” said Joe Pollard, voicing the sentiments of the rest, “is how Bud Larrimer, that’s as slow as a plow horse with a gun, could ever find the guts to challenge Terry Hollis to a fair fight.”

Kate Pollard rose anxiously with a suggestion.  Today or tomorrow at the latest she expected the arrival of Elizabeth Cornish, and so far it had been easy to keep Terry at the house.  The gang was gorged with the loot of the Lewison robbery, and Terry’s appetite for excitement had been cloyed by that event also.  This strange challenge from the older Larrimer was the fly in the ointment.

“It ain’t hard to tell why he sent that challenge,” she declared.  “He has some sneaking plan up his sleeve, Dad.  You know Bud Larrimer.  He hasn’t the nerve to fight a boy.  How’ll he ever manage to stand up to Terry unless he’s got hidden backing?”

She herself did not know how accurately she was hitting off the situation; but she was drawing it as black as possible to hold Terry from accepting the challenge.  It was her father who doubted her suggestion.

“It sounds queer,” he said, “but the gents of these parts don’t make no ambushes while McGuire is around.  He’s a clean shooter, is McGuire, and he don’t stand for no shady work with guns.”

Again Kate went to the attack.

“But the sheriff would do anything to get Terry.  You know that.  And maybe he isn’t so particular about how it’s done.  Dad, don’t you let Terry make a step toward town!  I know something would happen!  And even if they didn’t ambush him, he would be outlawed even if he won the fight.  No matter how fair he may fight, they won’t stand for two killings in so short a time.  You know that, Dad.  They’d have a mob out here to lynch him!”

“You’re right, Kate,” nodded her father.  “Terry, you better stay put.”

But Terry Hollis had risen and stretched himself to the full length of his height, and extended his long arms sleepily.  Every muscle played smoothly up his arms and along his shoulders.  He was fit for action from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

“Partners,” he announced gently, “no matter what Bud Larrimer has on his mind, I’ve got to go in and meet him.  Maybe I can convince him without gun talk.  I hope so.  But it will have to be on the terms he wants.  I’ll saddle up and lope into town.”

He started for the door.  The other members of the Pollard gang looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders.  Plainly the whole affair was a bad mess.  If Terry shot Larrimer, he would certainly be followed by a lynching mob, because no self-respecting Western town could allow two members of its community to be dropped in quick succession by one man of an otherwise questionable past.  No matter how fair the gunplay, just as Kate had said, the mob would rise.  But on the other hand, how could Terry refuse to respond to such an invitation without compromising his reputation as a man without fear?

There was nothing to do but fight.

But Kate ran to her father.  “Dad,” she cried, “you got to stop him!”

He looked into her drawn face in astonishment.

“Look here, honey,” he advised rather sternly.  “Man-talk is man-talk, and man-ways are man-ways, and a girl like you can’t understand.  You keep out of this mess.  It’s bad enough without having your hand added.”

She saw there was nothing to be gained in this direction.  She turned to the rest of the men; they watched her with blank faces.  Not a man there but would have done much for the sake of a single smile.  But how could they help?

Desperately she ran to the door, jerked it open, and followed Terry to the stable.  He had swung the saddle from its peg and slipped it over the back of El Sangre, and the great stallion turned to watch this perennially interesting operation.

“Terry,” she said, “I want ten words with you.”

“I know what you want to say,” he answered gently.  “You want to make me stay away from town today.  To tell you the truth, Kate, I hate to go in.  I hate it like the devil.  But what can I do?  I have no grudge against Larrimer.  But if he wants to talk about his brother’s death, why—­good Lord, Kate, I have to go in and listen, don’t I?  I can’t dodge that responsibility!”

“It’s a trick, Terry.  I swear it’s a trick.  I can feel it!” She dropped her hand nervously on the heavy revolver which she wore strapped at her hip, and fingered the gold chasing.  Without her gun, ever since early girlhood, she had felt that her toilet was not complete.

“It may be,” he nodded thoughtfully.  “And I appreciate the advice, Kate—­ but what would you have me do?”

“Terry,” she said eagerly, “you know what this means.  You’ve killed once.  If you go into town today, it means either that you kill or get killed.  And one thing is about as bad as the other.”

Again he nodded.  She was surprised that he would admit so much, but there were parts of his nature which, plainly, she had not yet reached to.

“What difference does it make, Kate?” His voice fell into a profound gloom.  “What difference?  I can’t change myself.  I’m what I am.  It’s in the blood.  I was born to this.  I can’t help it.  I know that I’ll lose in the end.  But while I live I’ll be happy.  A little while!”

She choked.  But the sight of his drawing the cinches, the imminence of his departure, cleared her mind again.

“Give me two minutes,” she begged.

“Not one,” he answered.  “Kate, you only make us both unhappy.  Do you suppose I wouldn’t change if I could?”

He came to her and took her hands.

“Honey, there are a thousand things I’d like to say to you, but being what I am, I have no right to say them to you—­never, or to any other woman!  I’m born to be what I am.  I tell you, Kate, the woman who raised me, who was a mother to me, saw what I was going to be—­and turned me out like a dog!  And I don’t blame her.  She was right!”

She grasped at the straw of hope.

“Terry, that woman has changed her mind.  You hear?  She’s lived heartbroken since she turned you out.  And now she’s coming for you to—­to beg you to come back to her!  Terry, that’s how much she’s given up hope in you!”

But he drew back, his face growing dark.

“You’ve been to see her, Kate?  That’s where you went when you were away those four days?”

She dared not answer.  He was trembling with hurt pride and rage.

“You went to her—­she thought I sent you—­that I’ve grown ashamed of my own father, and that I want to beg her to take me back?  Is that what she thinks?”

He struck his hand across his forehead and groaned.

“God!  I’d rather die than have her think it for a minute.  Kate, how could you do it?  I’d have trusted you always to do the right thing and the proud thing—­and here you’ve shamed me!”

He turned to the horse, and El Sangre stepped out of the stall and into a shaft of sunlight that burned on him like blood-red fire.  And beside him young Terry Hollis, straight as a pine, and as strong—­a glorious figure.  It broke her heart to see him, knowing what was coming.

“Terry, if you ride down yonder, you’re going to a dog’s death!  I swear you are, Terry!”

She stretched out her arms to him; but he turned to her with his hand on the pommel, and his face was like iron.

“I’ve made my choice.  Will you stand aside, Kate?”

“You’re set on going?  Nothing will change you?  But I tell you, I’m going to change you!  I’m only a girl.  And I can’t stop you with a girl’s weapons.  I’ll do it with a man’s.  Terry, take the saddle off that horse!  And promise me you’ll stay here till Elizabeth Cornish comes!”

“Elizabeth Cornish?” He laughed bitterly.  “When she conies, I’ll be a hundred miles away, and bound farther off.  That’s final.”

“You’re wrong,” she cried hysterically.  “You’re going to stay here.  You may throw away your share in yourself.  But I have a share that I won’t throw away.  Terry, for the last time!”

He shook his head.

She caught her breath with a sob.  Someone was coming from the outside.  She heard her father’s deep-throated laughter.  Whatever was done, she must do it quickly.  And he must be stopped!

The hand on the gun butt jerked up—­the long gun flashed in her hand.

“Kate!” cried Terry.  “Good God, are you mad?”

“Yes,” she sobbed.  “Mad!  Will you stay?”

“What infernal nonsense—­”

The gun boomed hollowly in the narrow passage between mow and wall.  El Sangre reared, a red flash in the sunlight, and landed far away in the shadow, trembling.  But Terry Hollis had spun halfway around, swung by the heavy, tearing impact of the big slug, and then sank to the floor, where he sat clasping his torn thigh with both hands, his shoulder and head sagging against the wall.

Joe Pollard, rushing in with an outcry, found the gun lying sparkling in the sunshine, and his daughter, hysterical and weeping, holding the wounded man in her arms.

“What—­in the name of—­” he roared.

“Accident, Joe,” gasped Terry.  “Fooling with Kate’s gun and trying a spin with it.  It went off—­drilled me clean through the leg!”

That night, very late, in Joe Pollard’s house, Terry Hollis lay on the bed with a dim light reaching to him from the hooded lamp in the corner of the room.  His arms were stretched out on each side and one hand held that of Kate, warm, soft, young, clasping his fingers feverishly and happily.  And on the other side was the firm, cool pressure of the hand of Aunt Elizabeth.

His mind was in a haze.  Vaguely he perceived the gleam of tears on the face of Elizabeth.  And he had heard her say:  “All the time I didn’t know, Terry.  I thought I was ashamed of the blood in you.  But this girl opened my eyes.  She told me the truth.  The reason I took you in was because I loved that wild, fierce, gentle, terrible father of yours.  If you have done a little of what he did, what does it matter?  Nothing to me!  Oh, Terry, nothing in the world to me!  Except that Kate brought me to my senses in time—­bless her—­and now I have you back, dear boy!”

He remembered smiling faintly and happily at that.  And he said before he slept:  “It’s a bit queer, isn’t it, even two wise women can’t show a man that he’s a fool?  It takes a bullet to turn the trick!”

But when he went to sleep, his head turned a little from Elizabeth toward Kate.

And the women raised their heads and looked at one another with filmy eyes.  They both understood what that feeble gesture meant.  It told much of the fine heart of Elizabeth—­that she was able to smile at the girl and forgive her for having stolen again what she had restored.

It was the break-up of the Pollard gang, the sudden disaffection of their newest and most brilliant member.  Joe himself was financed by Elizabeth Cornish and opened a small string of small-town hotels.

“Which is just another angle of the road business,” he often said, “except that the law works with you and not agin you.”

But he never quite recovered from the restoration of the Lewison money on which Elizabeth and Terry both insisted.  Neither did Denver Pete.  He left them in disgust and was never heard of again in those parts.  And he always thereafter referred to Terry as “a promising kid gone to waste.”

* END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK, BLACK JACK *

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