Black Jack by Max Brand (top android ebook reader txt) đź“•
His sister's voice cut into his musing. She had two tones. One might be called her social register. It was smooth, gentle--the low-pitched and controlled voice of a gentlewoman. The other voice was hard and sharp. It could drive hard and cold across a desk, and bring businessmen to an understanding that here was a mind, not a woman.
At present she used her latter tone. Vance Cornish came into a shivering consciousness that she was sitting beside him. He turned his head slowly. It was always a shock to come out of one of his pleasant dreams and see that worn, hollow-eyed, impatient face.
"Are you forty-nine, Vance?"
"I'm not fifty, at least," he countered.
She remained imperturbable, looking him over. He had come to notice that in the past half-dozen years his best smiles often failed to mellow her expression. He felt that something disagreeable was coming.
"Why did Cornwall run away this morning? I hoped to take him on a trip."
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And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the
doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his
gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them
in greeting. It was impossible—more impossible than ever.
He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What
should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her
with that stain in his soul?
And this was what Terry said to her: “I’m going to teach El Sangre to let
you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you’d been with us going down the
hill this morning!”
No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely
changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed
larger and brighter—it was no longer possible for her to look deeply
into it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other
differences.
He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was
a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a
catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light
before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was
an air of uneasy, alert happiness—as of one who steals a few perfect
moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her,
and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.
“Terry Hollis, what have you done? You’re lookin’ me in the eye, but you
ought to be hangin’ your head. You’ve done murder! Murder! Murder!”
She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting
the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.
He was laughing down at her—actually laughing, and there was no doubt as
to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her;
she became afraid for the first time in her life.
“A little formality with a gun,” he said calmly. “A dog got in my way,
Kate—a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm.”
“Ah, Terry, I know everything. I’ve heard Denver tell it. I know it was a
man, Terry.”
He insisted carelessly. “By the Lord, Kate, only a dog—and a mad dog at
that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a
dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn’t worth talking about.”
She drew away from him. “Terry, God pity you. I pity you,” she went on
hurriedly and faintly. “But you ain’t the same any more, Terry. I—I’m
almost afraid of you!”
He tried laughingly to stop her, and in a sudden burst of hysterical
terror she fled from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come
after her, light as a shadow. And the shadow leaped between her and the
door; the force of her rush drove her into his arms.
In the distance she could hear the others laughing—they understood such
a game as this, and enjoyed it with all their hearts. Ah, the fools!
He held her lightly, his fingertips under her elbows. For all the
delicacy of that touch, she knew that if she attempted to flee, the grip
would be iron. He would hold her where she was until he was through
talking to her.
“Don’t you see what I’ve done?” he was saying rapidly. “You wanted to
drive me out last night. You said I didn’t fit—that I didn’t belong up
here. Well, Kate, I started out today to make myself fit to belong to
this company of fine fellows.”
He laughed a little; if it were not real mirth, at least there was a
fierce quality of joy in his voice.
“You see, I decided that if I went away I’d be lonely. Particularly, I’d
be lonely as the devil, Kate, for you!”
“You’ve murdered to make yourself one—of us?”
“Tush, Kate. You exaggerate entirely. Do you know what I’ve really done?
Why, I’ve wakened; I’ve come to my senses. After all, there was no other
place for me to go. I tried the world of good, ordinary working people. I
asked them to let me come in and prove my right to be one of them. They
discharged me when I worked honestly on the range. They sent their
professional gunmen and bullies after me. And then—I reached the limit
of my endurance, Kate, and I struck back. And the mockery of it all is
this—that though they have struck me repeatedly and I have endured it,
I—having struck back a single time—am barred from among them forever.
Let it be so!”
“Hush, Terry. I—I’m going to think of ways!”
“You couldn’t. Last night—yes. Today I’m a man—and I’m free. And
freedom is the sweetest thing in the world. There’s no place else for me
to go. This is my world. You’re my queen. I’ve won my spurs; I’ll use
them in your service, Kate.”
“Stop, Terry!”
“By the Lord, I will, though! I’m happy—don’t you see? And I’m going to
be happier. I’m going to work my way along until I can tell you—that I
love you, Kate—that you’re the daintiest body of fire and beauty and
temper and gentleness and wisdom and fun that was ever crowned with the
name of a woman. And—”
But under the rapid fire of his words there was a touch of hardness—
mockery, perhaps. She drew back, and he stepped instantly aside. She went
by him through the door with bowed head. And Terry, closing it after her,
heard the first sob.
It was as if a gate which had hitherto been closed against him in the
Pollard house were now opened. They no longer held back from Terry, but
admitted him freely to their counsels. But the first person to whom he
spoke was Slim Dugan. There was a certain nervousness about Slim this
evening, and a certain shame. For he felt that in the morning, to an
extent, he had backed down from the quarrel with young Black Jack. The
killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more
pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into
consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die; for he felt
that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a
single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gunplay. And
everyone knew it.
The moment there was silence the son of Black Jack went straight to Slim
Dugan.
“Slim,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “a fellow isn’t
himself before noon. I’ve been thinking over that little trouble we had
this morning, and I’ve made up my mind that if there were any fault it
was mine for taking a joke too seriously. At any rate, if it’s agreeable
to you, Slim, I’d like to shake hands and call everything square. But if
there’s going to be any ill will, let’s have it out right now.”
Slim Dugan wrung the hand of Terry without hesitation.
“If you put it that way,” he said cordially, “I don’t mind saying that I
was damned wrong to heave that stone at the hoss. And I apologize,
Terry.”
And so everything was forgotten. Indeed, where there had been enmity
before, there was now friendship. And there was a breath of relief drawn
by every member of the gang. The peacemaking tendency of Hollis had more
effect on the others than a dozen killings. They already granted that he
was formidable. They now saw that he was highly desirable also.
Dinner that night was a friendly affair, except that Kate stayed in her
room with a headache. Johnny the Chinaman smuggled a tray to her. Oregon
Charlie went to the heart of matters with one of his rare speeches:
“You hear me talk, Hollis. She’s mad because you’ve stepped off. She’ll
get over it all right.”
Oregon Charlie had a right to talk. It was an open secret that he had
loved Kate faithfully ever since he joined the gang. But apparently Terry
Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of
festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a
diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider; the mutter of his hoofs
swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the
shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.
“It’s Sandy,” he fired over his shoulder in explanation.
A weary-looking fellow came into the room, swinging his hat to knock the
dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale
mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken, and no more.
“News?” said Pollard.
“News,” grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.
Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places
laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was
rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvellous expedition,
keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a
hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache
with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk.
“First thing,” he said now—and utter silence spread around the table as
he began to talk—“first thing is that McGuire is coming. I seen him on
the trail, cut to the left and took the short way. He ought to be loping
in almost any minute.”
Terry saw the others looking straight at Pollard; the leader was
thoughtful for a moment.
“Is he coming with a gang, Sandy?”
“Nope—alone.”
“He was always a nervy cuss. Someday—”
He left the sentence unfinished. Denver had risen noiselessly.
“I’m going to beat it for my bunk,” he announced. “Let me know when the
sheriff is gone.”
“Sit where you are, Denver. McGuire ain’t going to lay hands on you.”
“Sure he ain’t,” agreed Denver. “But I ain’t partial to having guys lay
eyes on me, neither. Some of you can go out and beat up trouble. I like
to stay put.”
And he glided out of the room with no more noise than a sliding shadow.
He had hardly disappeared when a heavy hand beat at the door.
“That’s McGuire,” announced Pollard. “Let him in, Phil.” So saying, he
twitched his gun out of the holster, spun the cylinder, and dropped it
back.
“Don’t try nothing till you see me put my hand into my beard, boys. He
don’t mean much so long as he’s come alone.”
Marvin drew back the door. Terry saw a man with shoulders of martial
squareness enter. And there was a touch of the military in his brisk step
and the curt nod he sent at Marvin as he passed the latter. He had not
taken off his sombrero. It cast a heavy shadow across the upper part of
his worn, sad face.
“Evening, sheriff,” came from Pollard, and a muttered chorus from the
others repeated the greeting. The sheriff cast his glance over them like
a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture.
“Evening, boys.”
“Sit down, McGuire.”
“I’m only staying a minute. I’ll talk standing.” It was a declaration of
war.
“I guess this is the first time I been up here, Pollard?”
“The very first, sheriff.”
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