Black Jack by Max Brand (short story to read TXT) 📕

with him later on tonight."

"All right—Black Jack," muttered Denver. For it seemed to him that the voice of the lost leader had spoken. "Play the fool, then, kid. But— let's feed these skates the spur! The town's boiling!"

Indeed, there was a dull roar behind them.

"No danger," chuckled Terry. "McGuire knows perfectly well that I've done this. And because he knows that, and he knows that I know it, he'll strike in the opposite direction to Pollard's house. He'll never dream that I would go right back to Pollard and sit down under the famous nose of McGuire!"

The dawn was brightening over the mountains above them, and the skyline was ragged with forest. A free country for free men—like the old Black Jack and the new. A short life, perhaps, but a full one.

The coming of the day showed Denver's face weary and drawn. Those moments in the bank, surrounded by danger, had been nerve-racking even to his experience. But to him it was a business, and to Terry it was a game. He felt a qualm of pity for Lewison—but, after all, the man was a wolf, selfish, accumulating money to no purpose, useless to the world. He shrugged the thought of Lewison away.

It was close to sunrise when they reached the house, and having put up the horses, staggered in and called to Johnny to bring them coffee; he was already rattling at the kitchen stove. Then, with a shout, they brought Pollard himself stumbling down from the balcony rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They threw the money down before him.

He was stupefied, and then his big lion's voice went booming with the call for his men. Terry did not wait; he stretched himself with a great yawn and made for his bed, and passed Phil Marvin and the others hurrying downstairs to answer the summons. Kate Pollard came also. She paused as he went by her and he saw her eyes go down to his dusty boots, with the leather polished where the stirrup had chafed, then flashed back to his face.

"You, Terry!" she whispered.

But he went by her with a wave of the hand.

The girl went on down to the big room. They were gathered already, a bright-eyed, hungry-faced crew of men. Gold was piled across the table in front of them. Slim Dugan had been ordered to go to the highest window of the house and keep watch for the coming of the expected posse. In the meantime the others counted the money, ranging it in bright little stacks; and Denver told the tale.

He took a little more credit to himself than was his due. But it was his part to pay a tribute to Terry. For was it not he who had brought the son of Black Jack among them?

"And of all the close squeezes I ever been in," concluded Denver, "that was the closest. And of all the nervy, cold-eyed guys I ever see, Black Jack's kid takes the cake. Never a quiver all the time. And when he whispered, them two guys at the table jumped. He meant business, and they knew it."

The girl listened. Her eye alone was not upon the money, but fixed far off, at thin distance.

"Thirty-five thousand gold," announced Pollard, with a break of excitement in his voice, "and seventeen thousand three hundred and eighty-two in paper. Boys, the richest haul we ever made! And the coolest deal all the way through. Which I say, Denver and Terry—Terry particular—gets extra shares for what they done!"

And there was a chorus of hearty approval. The voice of Denver cut it short.

"Terry don't want none. No, boys, knock me dead if he does. Can you beat it? 'I did it to keep my word,' he says, 'with the sheriff. You can have my share, Denver.'

"And he sticks on it. It's a game with him, boys. He plays at it like a big kid!"

In the hush of astonishment, the eyes of Kate misted. Something in that last speech had stung her cruelly. Something had to be done, and quickly, to save young Terry Hollis. But what power could influence him?

It was that thought which brought her to the hope for a solution. A very vague and faraway hope to which she clung and which unravelled slowly in her imagination. Before she left the kitchen, her plan was made, and immediately after breakfast, she went to her room and dressed for a long journey.

"I'm going over the hills to visit the Stockton girls," she told her father. "Be gone a few days."

His mind was too filled with hope for the future to understand her. He nodded idly, and she was gone.

She roped the toughest mustang of her "string" in the corral, and ten minutes later she was jogging down the trail. Halfway down a confused group of riders—some dozen in all—swarmed up out of the lower trail. Sheriff McGuire rode out on a sweating horse that told of fierce and long riding and stopped her.

His salutation was brief; he plunged into the heart of his questions. Had she noticed anything unusual this morning? Which of the men had been absent from the house last night? Particularly, who went out with Black Jack's kid?

"Nobody left the house," she said steadily. "Not a soul."

And she kept a blank eye on the sheriff while he bit his lip and studied her.

"Kate," he said at length, "I don't blame you for not talking. I don't suppose I would in your place. But your dad has about reached the end of the rope with us. If you got any influence, try to change him, because if he don't do it by his own will, he's going to be changed by force!"

And he rode on up the trail, followed by the silent string of riders on
their grunting, tired horses. She gave them only a careless glance. Joe
Pollard had baffled officers of the law before, and he would do it again.
That was not her great concern on this day.

Down the trail she sent her mustang again, and broke him out into a stiff gallop on the level ground below. She headed straight through the town, and found a large group collected in and around the bank building. They turned and looked after her, but no one spoke a greeting. Plainly the sheriff's suspicions were shared by others.

She shook that shadow out of her head and devoted her entire attention to the trail which roughened and grew narrow on the other side of the town. Far away across the mountains lay her goal—the Cornish ranch.

CHAPTER 37

When she first glimpsed Bear Valley from the summits of the Blue Mountains, it seemed to her a small paradise. And as she rode lower and lower among the hills, the impression gathered strength. So she came out onto the road and trotted her cow-pony slowly under the beautiful branches of the silver spruce, and saw the bright tree shadows reflected in Bear Creek. Surely here was a place of infinite quiet, made for happiness. A peculiar ache and sense of emptiness entered her heart, and the ghost of Terry Hollis galloped soundlessly beside her on flaming El Sangre through the shadow. It seemed to her that she could understand him more easily. His had been a sheltered and pleasant life here, half dreamy; and when he wakened into a world of stern reality and stern men, he was still playing at a game like a boy—as Denver Pete had said.

She came out into view of the house. And again she paused. It was like a palace to Kate, that great white facade and the Doric columns of the veranda. She had always thought that the house of her father was a big and stable house; compared with this, it was a shack, a lean-to, a veritable hovel. And the confidence which had been hers during the hard ride of two days across the mountains grew weaker. How could she talk to the woman who owned such an establishment as this? How could she even gain access to her?

On a broad, level terrace below the house men were busy with plows and scrapers smoothing the ground; she circled around them, and brought her horse to a stop before the veranda. Two men sat on it, one white-haired, hawk-faced, spreading a broad blueprint before the other; and this man was middle-aged, with a sleek, young face. A very good-looking fellow, she thought.

"Maybe you-all could tell me," said Kate Pollard, lounging in the saddle, "where I'll find the lady that owns this here place?"

It seemed to her that the sleek-faced man flushed a little.

"If you wish to talk to the owner," he said crisply, and barely touching his hat to her, "I'll do your business. What is it? Cattle lost over the Blue Mountains again? No strays have come down into the valley."

"I'm not here about cattle," she answered curtly enough. "I'm here about a man."

"H'm," said the other. "A man?" His attention quickened. "What man?"

"Terry Hollis."

She could see him start. She could also see that he endeavored to conceal it. And she did not know whether she liked or disliked that quick start and flush. There was something either of guilt or of surprise remarkably strong in it. He rose from his chair, leaving the blueprint fluttering in the hands of his companion alone.

"I am Vance Cornish," he told her. She could feel his eyes prying at her as though he were trying to get at her more accurately. "What's Hollis been up to now?"

He turned and explained carelessly to his companion: "That's the young scapegrace I told you about, Waters. Been raising Cain again, I suppose." He faced the girl again.

"A good deal of it," she answered. "Yes, he's been making quite a bit of trouble."

"I'm sorry for that, really," said Vance. "But we are not responsible for him."

"I suppose you ain't," said Kate Pollard slowly. "But I'd like to talk to the lady of the house."

"Very sorry," and again he looked in his sharp way—like a fox, she thought—and then glanced away as though there were no interest in her or her topic. "Very sorry, but my sister is in—er—critically declining health. I'm afraid she cannot see you."

This repulse made Kate thoughtful. She was not used to such bluff talk from men, however smooth or rough the exterior might be. And under the quiet of Vance she sensed an opposition like a stone wall.

"I guess you ain't a friend of Terry's?"

"I'd hardly like to put it strongly one way or the other. I know the boy, if that's what you mean."

"It ain't." She considered him again. And again she was secretly pleased to see him stir under the cool probe of her eyes. "How long did you live with Terry?"

"He was with us twenty-four years." He turned and explained casually to Waters. "He was taken in as a foundling, you know. Quite against my advice. And then, at the end of the twenty-four years, the bad blood of his father came out, and he showed himself in his true colors. Fearful waste of time to us all—of course, we had to turn him out."

"Of course," nodded Waters sympathetically, and he looked wistfully down at his blueprint.

"Twenty-four years you lived with Terry," said the girl softly, "and you don't like him, I see."

Instantly and forever he was damned in her eyes. Anyone who could live twenty-four years with Terry Hollis and not discover his fineness was beneath contempt.

"I'll tell you," she said. "I've got to see Miss Elizabeth Cornish."

"H'm!" said Vance. "I'm afraid not. But—just what have you to tell her?"

The girl smiled.

"If I could tell you that, I wouldn't have to see her."

He rubbed his chin with his knuckles, staring at the floor of the veranda, and now and then raising quick glances at her. Plainly he was suspicious. Plainly, also, he was tempted in some manner.

"Something he's done, eh? Some yarn about Terry?"

It was quite plain that this man actually wanted her to have something unpleasant to say about Terry. Instantly she suited herself to his mood; for he was the door through which she must pass to see Elizabeth Cornish.

"Bad?" she said, hardening her expression as much as possible. "Well, bad enough. A killing to begin with."

There was a gleam in his eyes—a gleam of positive joy, she was sure, though he banished