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

CHAPTER 38

The fine gray head, the hawklike, aristocratic face, and the superior

manner of Waters procured him admission to many places where the ordinary

man was barred. It secured him admission on this day to the office of

Sheriff McGuire, though McGuire had refused to see his best friends.

 

A proof of the perturbed state of 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