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

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 a man without fear?

 

There was nothing to do but fight.

 

But Kate ran to her father. “Dad,” she cried, “you got to stop him!”

 

He looked into her drawn face in astonishment.

 

“Look here, honey,” he advised rather sternly. “Man-talk is man-talk, and

man-ways are man-ways, and a girl like you can’t understand. You keep out

of this mess. It’s bad enough without having your hand added.”

 

She saw there was nothing to be gained in this direction. She turned to

the rest of the men; they watched her with blank faces. Not a man there

but would have done much for the sake of a single smile. But how could

they help?

 

Desperately she ran to the door, jerked it open, and followed Terry to

the stable. He had swung the saddle from its peg and slipped it over the

back of El Sangre, and the great stallion turned to watch this

perennially interesting operation.

 

“Terry,” she said, “I want ten words with you.”

 

“I know what you want to say,” he answered gently. “You want to make me

stay away from town today. To tell you the truth, Kate, I hate to go in.

I hate it like the devil. But what can I do? I have no grudge against

Larrimer. But if he wants to talk about his brother’s death, why—good

Lord, Kate, I have to go in and listen, don’t I? I can’t dodge that

responsibility!”

 

“It’s a trick, Terry. I swear it’s a trick. I can feel it!” She dropped

her hand nervously on the heavy revolver which she wore strapped at her

hip, and fingered the gold chasing. Without her gun, ever since early

girlhood, she had felt that her toilet was not complete.

 

“It may be,” he nodded thoughtfully. “And I appreciate the advice, Kate—

but what would you have me do?”

 

“Terry,” she said eagerly, “you know what this means. You’ve killed once.

If you go into town today, it means either that you kill or get killed.

And one thing is about as bad as the other.”

 

Again he nodded. She was surprised that he would admit so much, but there

were parts of his nature which, plainly, she had not yet reached to.

 

“What difference does it make, Kate?” His voice fell into a profound

gloom. “What difference? I can’t change myself. I’m what I am. It’s in

the blood. I was born to this. I can’t help it. I know that I’ll lose in

the end. But while I live I’ll be happy. A little while!”

 

She choked. But the sight of his drawing the cinches, the imminence of

his departure, cleared her mind again.

 

“Give me two minutes,” she begged.

 

“Not one,” he answered. “Kate, you only make us both unhappy. Do you

suppose I wouldn’t change if I could?”

 

He came to her and took her hands.

 

“Honey, there are a thousand things I’d like to say to you, but being

what I am, I have no right to say them to you—never, or to any other

woman! I’m born to be what I am. I tell you, Kate, the woman who raised

me, who was a mother to me, saw what I was going to be—and turned me out

like a dog! And I don’t blame her. She was right!”

 

She grasped at the straw of hope.

 

“Terry, that woman has changed her mind. You hear? She’s lived

heartbroken since she turned you out. And now she’s coming for you to—to

beg you to come back to her! Terry, that’s how much she’s given up hope

in you!”

 

But he drew back, his face growing dark.

 

“You’ve been to see her, Kate? That’s where you went when you were away

those four days?”

 

She dared not answer. He was trembling with hurt pride and rage.

 

“You went to her—she thought I sent you—that I’ve grown ashamed of my

own father, and that I want to beg her to take me back? Is that what she

thinks?”

 

He struck his hand across his forehead and groaned.

 

“God! I’d rather die than have her think it for a minute. Kate, how could

you do it? I’d have trusted you always to do the right thing and the

proud thing—and here you’ve shamed me!”

 

He turned to the horse, and El Sangre stepped out of the stall and into a

shaft of sunlight that burned on him like blood-red fire. And beside him

young Terry Hollis, straight as a pine, and as strong—a glorious figure.

It broke her heart to see him, knowing what was coming.

 

“Terry, if you ride down yonder, you’re going to a dog’s death! I swear

you are, Terry!”

 

She stretched out her arms to him; but he turned to her with his hand on

the pommel, and his face was like iron.

 

“I’ve made my choice. Will you stand aside, Kate?”

 

“You’re set on going? Nothing will change you? But I tell you, I’m going

to change you! I’m only a girl. And I can’t stop you with a girl’s

weapons. I’ll do it with a man’s. Terry, take the saddle off that horse!

And promise me you’ll stay here till Elizabeth Cornish comes!”

 

“Elizabeth Cornish?” He laughed bitterly. “When she conies, I’ll be a

hundred miles away, and bound farther off. That’s final.”

 

“You’re wrong,” she cried hysterically. “You’re going to stay here. You

may throw away your share in yourself. But I have a share that I won’t

throw away. Terry, for the last time!”

 

He shook his head.

 

She caught her breath with a sob. Someone was coming from the outside.

She heard her father’s deep-throated laughter. Whatever was done, she

must do it quickly. And he must be stopped!

 

The hand on the gun butt jerked up—the long gun flashed in her hand.

 

“Kate!” cried Terry. “Good God, are you mad?”

 

“Yes,” she sobbed. “Mad! Will you stay?”

 

“What infernal nonsense—”

 

The gun boomed hollowly in the narrow passage between mow and wall. El

Sangre reared, a red flash in the sunlight, and landed far away in the

shadow, trembling. But Terry Hollis had spun halfway around, swung by the

heavy, tearing impact of the big slug, and then sank to the floor, where

he sat clasping his torn thigh with both hands, his shoulder and head

sagging against the wall.

 

Joe Pollard, rushing in with an outcry, found the gun lying sparkling in

the sunshine, and his daughter, hysterical and weeping, holding the

wounded man in her arms.

 

“What—in the name of—” he roared.

 

“Accident, Joe,” gasped Terry. “Fooling with Kate’s gun and trying a spin

with it. It went off—drilled me clean through the leg!”

 

That night, very late, in Joe Pollard’s house, Terry Hollis lay on the

bed with a dim light reaching to him from the hooded lamp in the corner

of the room. His arms were stretched out on each side and one hand held