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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again.”
“You’re a Spartan,” said her brother in awe, as he looked on that thin,
stern face. “Terry is your theory. If he disappoints you, he’ll be simply
a theory gone wrong. You’ll cut him out of your life as if he were an
algebraic equation and never think of him again.”
“But he’s not going wrong, Vance. Because, in ten days, he’ll be twenty-five! And that’s what all these changes mean. The moment it grows dark on
the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, I’m going to take him into my
father’s room and turn it over to him.”
He had listened to her patiently, a little wearied by her unusual flow of
words. Now he came out of his apathy with a jerk. He laid his hand on
Elizabeth’s shoulder and turned her so that the light shone full in her
face. Then he studied her.
“What do you mean by that, Elizabeth?”
“Vance,” she said steadily, but with a touch of pity in her voice, “I
have waited for a score of years, hoping that you’d settle down and try
to do a man’s work either here or somewhere else. You haven’t done it.
Yesterday Mr. Cornwall came here to draw up my will. By that will I leave
you an annuity, Vance, that will take care of you in comfort; but I leave
everything else to Terry Colby. That’s why I’ve changed the room. The
moment it grows dark ten days from today, I’m going to take Terry by the
hand and lead him into the room and into the position of my father!”
The mask of youth which was Vance Cornish crumbled and fell away. A new
man looked down at her. The firm flesh of his face became loose. His
whole body was flabby. She had the feeling that if she pushed against his
chest with the weight of her arm, he would topple to the floor. That
weakness gradually passed. A peculiar strength of purpose grew in its
place.
“Of course, this is a very shrewd game, Elizabeth. You want to wake me
up. You’re using the spur to make me work. I don’t blame you for using
the bluff, even if it’s a rather cruel one. But, of course, it’s
impossible for you to be serious in what you say.”
“Why impossible, Vance?”
“Because you know that I’m the last male representative of our family.
Because you know my father would turn in his grave if he knew that an
interloper, a foundling, the child of a murderer, a vagabond, had been
made the heir to his estate. But you aren’t serious, Elizabeth; I
understand.”
He swallowed his pride, for panic grew in him in proportion to the length
of time she maintained her silence.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t blame you for giving me a scare, my dear
sister. I have been a shameless loafer. I’m going to reform and lift the
burden of business off your shoulders—let you rest the remainder of your
life.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. He realized it the moment he
had spoken. This forced, cowardly surrender was worse than brazen
defiance, and he saw her lip curl. An idler is apt to be like a sullen
child, except that in a grown man the child’s sulky spite becomes a dark
malice, all-embracing. For the very reason that Vance knew he was
receiving what he deserved, and that this was the just reward for his
thriftless years of idleness, he began to hate Elizabeth with a cold,
quiet hatred. There is something stimulating about any great passion. Now
Vance felt his nerves soothed and calmed. His self-possession returned
with a rush. He was suddenly able to smile into her face.
“After all,” he said, “you’re absolutely right. I’ve been a failure,
Elizabeth—a rank, disheartening failure. You’d be foolish to trust the
result of your life labors in my hands—entirely foolish. I admit that
it’s a shrewd blow to see the estate go to—Terry.”
He found it oddly difficult to name the boy.
“But why not? Why not Terry? He’s a clean youngster, and he may turn out
very well—in spite of his blood. I hope so. The Lord knows you’ve given
him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck!”
He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over
it.
“There’s the old Vance talking,” she said warmly, a mist across her eyes.
“I almost thought that part of you had died.”
He writhed inwardly. “By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out
of nothing, everything poured into his hands—and now within ten days of
his goal! Rather exciting, isn’t it? Suppose he should stumble at the
very threshold of his success? Eh?”
He pressed the point with singular insistence.
“Doesn’t it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might
fall—that he might do what I prophesied so long ago—shoot a man before
he’s twenty-five?”
She shrugged the supposition calmly away.
“My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he
fell, after the schooling I’ve given him, I’d throw him out of my life—
forever.”
He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he
shrugged in turn. “Tush! Of course, that’s impossible. Let’s go down.”
When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence Colby coming up the
terrace from the river road on Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One
ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but
would try to be on the alert. One ear flagged warily back. He went
slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse. Yet, when
the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside
and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a
creature of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave to the side-spring with supple grace and then sent the stallion on up the hill.
Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair was blowing about
his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has
done a hard day’s work and is ready to rest. He came close to the
veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly,
curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.
“The killer is no longer a killer,” laughed Terry. “Look him over, Uncle
Vance. A beauty, eh?”
Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a
trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping
that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked
back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.
“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”
“Not much more. A leggy horse can’t stand mountain work—or any other
work, for that matter, except a ride in the park.”
“I suppose you’re right. He’s a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye,
but I see that you’ve beaten him.”
“Beaten him?” He shook his head. “We reached a gentleman’s agreement. As
long as I wear spurs, he’ll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or
splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise he’ll keep on
fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop
tormenting him, he’ll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre.
Eh, boy?”
He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them. The horse
stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt
came in his eyes.
“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.
But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket.
The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them. Just as he turned, the
mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture—a man with long
black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping
through a dusty street with shots barking behind him. It came suddenly as
a revelation, and left him downheaded with the thought.
“What is it, Vance?” asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.
“Nothing.” Then he added abruptly: “I’m going for a jaunt for a few days,
Elizabeth.”
She grew gloomy.
“Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?”
“Not at all. I’m going to be back here in ten days and drink Terry’s long
life and happiness across the birthday dinner table.”
He marvelled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her
face.
“You noticed that—his gentleman’s agreement with Le Sangre? I’ve made
him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight—men argue
and agree.”
“I’ve noticed that he never has trouble with the cow-punchers.”
“They’ve seen him box,” chuckled Elizabeth. “Besides, Terry isn’t the
sort that troublemakers like to pick on. He has an ugly look when he’s
angry.”
“H’m,” murmured Vance. “I’ve noticed that. But as long as he keeps to his
fists, he’ll do no harm. But what is the reason for surrounding him with
guns, Elizabeth?”
“A very good reason. He loves them, you know. Anything from a shotgun to
a derringer is a source of joy to Terence. And not a day goes by that he
doesn’t handle them.”
“Certainly the effect of blood, eh?” suggested Vance.
She glanced sharply at him.
“You’re determined to be disagreeable today, Vance. As a matter of fact,
I’ve convinced him that for the very reason he is so accurate with a gun
he must never enter a gun fight. The advantage would be too much on his
side against any ordinary man. That appeals to Terry’s sense of fair
play. No, he’s absolutely safe, no matter how you look at it.”
“No doubt.”
He looked away from her and over the valley. The day had worn into the
late afternoon. Bear Creek ran dull and dark in the shadow, and Mount
Discovery was robed in blue to the very edge of its shining crown of
snow. In this dimmer, richer light the Cornish ranch had never seemed so
desirable to Vance. It was not a ranch; it was a little kingdom. And
Vance was the dispossessed heir.
He knew that he was being watched, however, and all that evening he was
at his best. At the dinner table he guided the talk so that Terence Colby
was the lion of the conversation. Afterward, when he was packing his
things in his room for his journey of the next day, he was careful to
sing at the top of his voice. He reaped a reward for this cautious
acting, for the next morning, when he climbed into the buckboard that was
to take him down the Blue Mountain road and over to the railroad, his
sister came down the steps and stood beside the wagon.
“You will come back for the birthday party, Vance?” she pleaded.
“You want me to?”
“You were with me when I got Terry. In fact, you got him for me. And I
want you to be here when he steps into his own.”
In this he found enough to keep him thoughtful all the way to the
railroad while the buckskins grunted up the grade and then spun away down
the long slope beyond. It was one of those
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