Black Jack by Max Brand (interesting novels to read TXT) 📖

danger in the air of Craterville—for him—there

came a nervous setting of the muscles, a desire to close on someone and

throttle the secret of this hostility. At this point he heard a light

tapping at the door. Terry sat bolt upright on the bed.

 

There are all kinds of taps. There are bold, heavy blows on the door that

mean danger without; there are careless, conversational rappings; but

this was a furtive tap, repeated after a pause as though it contained a

code message.

 

First there was a leap of fear—then cold quiet of the nerves. He was

surprised at himself. He found himself stepping into whatever adventure

lay toward him with the lifting of the spirits. It was a stimulus.

 

He called cheerfully: “Come in!”

 

And the moment he had spoken he was off the bed, noiselessly, and half

the width of the room away. It had come to him as he spoke that it might

be well to shift from the point from which his voice had been heard.

 

The door opened swiftly—so swiftly was it opened and closed that it made

a faint whisper in the air, oddly like a sigh. And there was no click of

the lock either in the opening or the closing. Which meant an

incalculably swift and dexterous manipulation with the fingers. Terry

found himself facing a short-throated man with heavy shoulders; he wore a

shapeless black hat bunched on his head as though the whole hand had

grasped the crown and shoved the hat into place. It sat awkwardly to one

side. And the hat typified the whole man. There was a sort of shifty

readiness about him. His eyes flashed in the lamplight as they glanced at

the bed, and then flicked back toward Terry. And a smile began somewhere

in his face and instantly went out. It was plain that he had understood

the maneuver.

 

He continued to survey Terry insolently for a moment without announcing

himself. Then he stated: “You’re him, all right!”

 

“Am I?” said Terry, regarding this unusual visitor with increasing

suspicion. “But I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage.”

 

The big-shouldered man raised a stubby hand. He had an air of one who

deprecates, and at the same time lets another into a secret. He moved

across the room with short steps that made no sound, and gave him a

peculiar appearance of drifting rather than walking. He picked up a chair

and placed it down on the rug beside the bed and seated himself in it.

 

Aside from the words he had spoken, since he entered the room he had made

no more noise than a phantom.

 

“You’re him, all right,” he repeated, balancing back in the chair. But he

gathered his toes under him, so that he remained continually poised in

spite of the seeming awkwardness of his position.

 

“Who am I?” asked Terry.

 

“Why, Black Jack’s kid. It’s printed in big type all over you.”

 

His keen eyes continued to bore at Terry as though he were striving to

read features beneath a mask. Terry could see his visitor’s face more

clearly now. It was square, with a powerfully muscled jaw and features

that had a battered look. Suddenly he teetered forward in his chair and

dropped his elbows aggressively on his knees.

 

“D’you know what they’re talking about downstairs?”

 

“Haven’t the slightest idea.”

 

“You ain’t! The old lady is trying to fix up a bad time for you.”

 

“She’s raising a crowd?”

 

“Doing her best. I dunno what it’ll come to. The boys are stirring a

little. But I think it’ll be all words and no action. Four-flushers, most

of ‘em. Besides, they say you bumped old Minter for a goal; and they

don’t like the idea of messing up with you. They’ll just talk. If they

try anything besides their talk—well, you and me can fix ‘em!”

 

Terry slipped into the only other chair which the room provided, but he

slid far down in it, so that his holster was free and the gun butt

conveniently under his hand.

 

“You seem a charitable sort,” he said. “Why do you throw in with me?”

 

“And you don’t know who I am?” said the other.

 

He chuckled noiselessly, his mouth stretching to remarkable proportions.

 

“I’m sorry,” said Terry.

 

“Why, kid, I’m Denver. I’m your old man’s pal, Denver! I’m him that done

the Silver Junction job with old Black Jack, and a lot more jobs, when

you come to that!”

 

He laughed again. “They were getting sort of warm for me out in the big

noise. So I grabbed me a side-door Pullman and took a trip out to the old

beat. And think of bumping into Black Jack’s boy right off the bat!”

 

He became more sober. “Say, kid, ain’t you got a glad hand for me? Ain’t

you ever heard Black Jack talk?”

 

“He died,” said Terry soberly, “before I was a year old.”

 

“The hell!” murmured the other. “The hell! Poor kid. That was a rotten

lay, all right. If I’d known about that, I’d of—but I didn’t. Well, let

it go. Here we are together. And you’re the sort of a sidekick I need.

Black Jack, we’re going to trim this town to a fare-thee-well!”

 

“My name is Hollis,” said Terry. “Terence Hollis.”

 

“Terence hell,” snorted the other. “You’re Black Jack’s kid, ain’t you?

And ain’t his moniker good enough for you to work under? Why, kid, that’s

a trademark most of us would give ten thousand cash for!”

 

He broke off and regarded Terry with a growing satisfaction.

 

“You’re his kid, all right. This is just the way Black Jack would of

sat—cool as ice—with a gang under him talking about stretching his

neck. And now, bo, hark to me sing! I got the job fixed and—But wait a

minute. What you been doing all these years? Black Jack was known when he

was your age!”

 

With a peculiar thrill of awe and of aversion Terry watched the face of

the man who had known his father so well. He tried to make himself

believe that twenty-four years ago Denver might have been quite another

type of man. But it was impossible to re-create that face other than as a

bulldog in the human flesh. The craft and the courage of a fighter were

written large in those features.

 

“I’ve been leading—a quiet life,” he said gently.

 

The other grinned. “Sure—quiet,” he chuckled. “And then you wake up and

bust Minter for your first crack. You began late, son, but you may go

far. Pretty tricky with the gat, eh?”

 

He nodded in anticipatory admiration.

 

“Old Minter had a name. Ain’t I had my run-in with him? He was smooth

with a cannon. And fast as a snake’s tongue. But they say you beat him

fair and square. Well, well, I call that a snappy start in the world!”

 

Terry was silent, but his companion refused to be chilled.

 

“That’s Black Jack over again,” he said. “No wind about what he’d done.

No jabber about what he was going to do. But when you wanted something

done, go to Black Jack. Bam! There it was done clean for you and no talk

afterward. Oh, he was a bird, was your old man. And you take after him,

right enough!”

 

A voice rose in Terry. He wanted to argue. He wanted to explain. It was

not that he felt any consuming shame because he was the son of Black Jack

Hollis. But there was a sort of foster parenthood to which he owed a

clean-minded allegiance—the fiction of the Colby blood. He had

worshipped that thought for twenty years. He could not discard it in an

instant.

 

Denver was breezing on in his quick, husky voice, so carefully toned that

it barely served to reach Terry.

 

“I been waiting for a pal like you, kid. And here’s where we hit it off.

You don’t know much about the game, I guess? Neither did Black Jack. As a

peterman he was a loud ha-ha; as a damper-getter he was just an amateur;

as a heel or a houseman, well, them things were just outside him. When it

come to the gorilla stuff, he was there a million, though. And when there

was a call for fast, quick, soft work, Black Jack was the man. Kid, I can

see that you’re cut right on his pattern. And here’s where you come in

with me. Right off the bat there’s going to be velvet. Later on I’ll

educate you. In three months you’ll be worth your salt. Are you on?”

 

He hardly waited for Terry to reply. He rambled on.

 

“I got a plant that can’t fail to blossom into the long green, kid. The

store safe. You know what’s in it? I’ll tell you. Ten thousand cold. Ten

thousand bucks, boy. Well, well, and how did it get there? Because a lot

of the boobs around here have put their spare cash in the safe for

safekeeping!”

 

He tilted his chin and indulged in another of his yawning, silent bursts

of laughter.

 

“And you never seen a peter like it. Tin, kid, tin. I could turn it

inside out with a can opener. But I ain’t long on a kit just now. I’m on

the hog for fair, as a matter of fact. Well, I don’t need a kit. I got

some sawdust and I can make the soup as pretty as you ever seen. We’ll

blow the safe, kid, and then we’ll float. Are you on?”

 

He paused, grinning with expectation, his face gradually becoming blank

as he saw no response in Terry.

 

“As nearly as I can make out—because most of the slang is new to me,”

said Terry, “you want to dynamite the store safe and—”

 

“Who said sawdust? Soup, kid, soup! I want to blow the door off the

peter, not the roof off the house. Say, who d’you think I am, a boob?”

 

“I understand, then. Nitroglycerin? Denver, I’m not with you. It’s mighty

good of you to ask me to join in—but that isn’t my line of work.”

 

The yegg raised an expostulatory hand, but Terry went on: “I’m going to

keep straight, Denver.”

 

It seemed as though this simple tiding took the breath from Denver.

 

“Ah!” he nodded at length. “You playing up a new line. No strong-arm

stuff except when you got to use it. Going to try scratching, kid? Is

that it, or some other kind of slick stuff?”

 

“I mean what I say, Denver. I’m going straight.”

 

The yegg shook his head, bewildered. “Say,” he burst out suddenly, “ain’t

you Black Jack’s kid?”

 

“I’m his son,” said Terry.

 

“All right. You’ll come to it. It’s in the blood, Black Jack. You can’t

get away from it.”

 

Terry tugged his shirt open at the throat; he was stifling. “Perhaps,” he

said.

 

“It’s the easy way,” went on Denver. “Well, maybe you ain’t ripe yet, but

when you are, tip me off. Gimme a ring and I’ll be with you.”

 

“One more thing. You’re broke, Denver. And I suppose you need what’s in

that safe. But if you take it, the widow will be ruined. She runs the

hotel and the store, too, you know.”

 

“Why, you poor boob,” groaned Denver, “don’t you know she’s the old dame

that’s trying to get you mobbed?”

 

“I suppose so. But she was pretty fond of the sheriff, you know. I don’t

blame her for carrying a grudge. Now, about the money, Denver; I happen

to have a little with me.