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

CHAPTER 3

“If Terry worries you like this,” suggested her brother kindly, “why

don’t you forbid these pranks?”

 

She looked at him as if in surprise.

 

“Forbid Terry?” she echoed, and then smiled. Decidedly this was her first

tone, a soft tone that came from deep in her throat. Instinctively Vance

contrasted it with the way she had spoken to him. But it was always this

way when Terry was mentioned. For the first time he saw it clearly. It

was amazing how blind he had been. “Forbid Terence? Vance, that devil of

a horse is part of his life. He was on a hunting trip when he saw Le

Sangre—”

 

“Good Lord, did they call the horse that?”

 

“A French-Canadian was the first to discover him, and he gave the name.

And he’s the color of blood, really. Well, Terence saw Le Sangre on a

hilltop against the sky. And he literally went mad. Actually, he struck

out on foot with his rifle and lived in the country and never stopped

walking until he wore down Le Sangre somehow and brought him back

hobbled—just skin and bones, and Terence not much more. Now Le Sangre is

himself again, and he and Terence have a fight—like that—every day. I

dream about it; the most horrible nightmares!”

 

“And you don’t stop it?”

 

“My dear Vance, how little you know Terence! You couldn’t tear that horse

out of his life without breaking his heart. I know!”

 

“So you suffer, day by day?”

 

“I’ve done very little else all my life,” said Elizabeth gravely. “And

I’ve learned to bear pain.”

 

He swallowed. Also, he was beginning to grow irritated. He had never

before had a talk with Elizabeth that contained so many reefs that

threatened shipwreck. He returned to the gist of their conversation

rather too bluntly.

 

“But to continue, Elizabeth, any banker would lend me money on my

prospects.”

 

“You mean the property which will come to you when I die?”

 

He used all his power, but he could not meet her glance. “You know that’s

a nasty way to put it, Elizabeth.”

 

“Dear Vance,” she sighed, “a great many people say that I’m a hard woman.

I suppose I am. And I like to look facts squarely in the face. Your

prospects begin with my death, of course.”

 

He had no answer, but bit his lip nervously and wished the ordeal would

come to an end.

 

“Vance,” she went on, “I’m glad to have this talk with you. It’s

something you have to know. Of course I’ll see that during my life or my

death you’ll be provided for. But as for your main prospects, do you know

where they are?”

 

“Well?”

 

She was needlessly brutal about it, but as she had told him, her

education had been one of pain.

 

“Your prospects are down there by the river on the back of Le Sangre.”

 

Vance Cornish gasped.

 

“I’ll show you what I mean, Vance. Come along.”

 

The moment she rose, some of her age fell from her. Her carriage was

erect. Her step was still full of spring and decision, as she led the way

into the house. It was a big, solid, two-story building which the

mightiest wind could not shake. Henry Cornish had merely founded the

house, just as he had founded the ranch; the main portion of the work had

been done by his daughter. And as they passed through, her stern old eye

rested peacefully on the deep, shadowy vistas, and her foot fell with

just pride on the splendid rising sweep of the staircase. They passed

into the roomy vault of the upper hall and went down to the end. She took

out a big key from her pocket and fitted it into the lock; then Vance

dropped his hand on her arm. His voice lowered.

 

“You’ve made a mistake, Elizabeth. This is Father’s room.”

 

Ever since his death it had been kept unchanged, and practically

unentered save for an occasional rare day of work to keep it in order.

Now she nodded and resolutely turned the key and swung the door open.

Vance went in with an exclamation of wonder. It was quite changed from

the solemn old room and the brown, varnished woodwork which he

remembered. Cream-tinted paint now made the walls cool and fresh. The

solemn engravings no longer hung above the bookcases. And the bookcases

themselves had been replaced with built-in shelves pleasantly filled with

rich bindings, black and red and deep yellow-browns. A tall cabinet stood

open at one side filled with rifles and shotguns of every description,

and another cabinet was loaded with fishing apparatus. The stiff-backed

chairs had given place to comfortable monsters of easy lines. Vance

Cornish, as one in a dream, peered here and there.

 

“God bless us!” he kept repeating. “God bless us! But where’s there a

trace of Father?”

 

“I left it out,” said Elizabeth huskily, “because this room is meant

for—but let’s go back. Do you remember that day twenty-four years ago

when we took Jack Hollis’s baby?”

 

“When you took it,” he corrected. “I disclaim all share in the idea.”

 

“Thank you,” she answered proudly. “At any rate, I took the boy and

called him Terence Colby.”

 

“Why that name,” muttered Vance, “I never could understand.”

 

“Haven’t I told you? No, and I hardly know whether to trust even you with

the secret, Vance. But you remember we argued about it, and you said that

blood would out; that the boy would turn out wrong; that before he was

twenty-five he would have shot a man?”

 

“I believe the talk ran like that.”

 

“Well, Vance, I started out with a theory; but the moment I had that baby

in my arms, it became a matter of theory, plus, and chiefly plus. I kept

remembering what you had said, and I was afraid. That was why I worked up

the Colby idea.”

 

“That’s easy to see.”

 

“It wasn’t so easy to do. But I heard of the last of an old Virginia

family who had died of consumption in Arizona. I traced his family. He

was the last of it. Then it was easy to arrange a little story: Terence

Colby had married a girl in Arizona, died shortly after; the girl died

also, and I took the baby. Nobody can disprove what I say. There’s not a

living soul who knows that Terence is the son of Jack Hollis—except you

and me.”

 

“How about the woman I got the baby from?”

 

“I bought her silence until fifteen years ago. Then she died, and now

Terry is convinced that he is the last representative of the Colby

family.”

 

She laughed with excitement and beckoned him out of the room and into

another—Terry’s room, farther down the hall. She pointed to a large

photograph of a solemn-faced man on the wall. “You see that?”

 

“Who is it?”

 

“I got it when I took Terry to Virginia last winter—to see the old

family estate and go over the ground of the historic Colbys.”

 

She laughed again happily.

 

“Terry was wild with enthusiasm. He read everything he could lay his

hands on about the Colbys. Discovered the year they landed in Virginia;

how they fought in the Revolution; how they fought and died in the Civil

War. Oh, he knows every landmark in the history of ‘his’ family. Of

course, I encouraged him.”

 

“I know,” chuckled Vance. “Whenever he gets in a pinch, I’ve heard you

say: ‘Terry, what should a Colby do?’”

 

“And,” cut in Elizabeth, “you must admit that it has worked. There isn’t

a prouder, gentler, cleaner-minded boy in the world than Terry. Not

blood. It’s the blood of Jack Hollis. But it’s what he thinks himself to

be that counts. And now, Vance, admit that your theory is exploded.”

 

He shook his head.

 

“Terry will do well enough. But wait till the pinch comes. You don’t know

how he’ll turn out when the rub comes. Then blood will tell!”

 

She shrugged her shoulders angrily.

 

“You’re simply being perverse now, Vance. At any rate, that picture is

one of Terry’s old ‘ancestors,’ Colonel Vincent Colby, of prewar days.

Terry has discovered family resemblances, of course—same black hair,

same black eyes, and a great many other things.”

 

“But suppose he should ever learn the truth?” murmured Vance.

 

She caught her breath.

 

“That would be ruinous, of course. But he’ll never learn. Only you and I

know.”

 

“A very hard blow, eh,” said Vance, “if he were robbed of the Colby

illusion and had Black Jack put in its place as a cold fact? But of

course we’ll never tell him.”

 

Her color was never high. Now it became gray. Only her eyes remained

burning, vivid, young, blazing out through the mask of age.

 

“Remember you said his blood would tell before he was twenty-five; that

the blood of Black Jack would come to the surface; that he would have

shot a man?”

 

“Still harping on that, Elizabeth? What if he does?”

 

“I’d