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

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