Son of an Outlaw Read online

  Vance crossed the room to his sister and stood beside her.

  “Quick, Elizabeth! Let me go to the door and call him back.”

  She shook her head.

  The strong, clear voice of Terence shouted far off, calling a greeting to someone who had passed him on the road. He seemed already happily bound out on his new life, forgetting and turning his back on the old.

  Vance heard a choked sigh, and looked down in time to see Elizabeth crumple up in a corner of the big chair. She had fainted.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Down the Bear Creek road Terence Hollis rode as he had never ridden before. To be sure it was not the first time that El Sangre had had stretched to the full his mighty strength, but on those other occasions he had fought the burst of speed, straining back in groaning stirrup leathers, with his full weight wresting at the bit. Now he let the rein play to such a point that he was barely keeping the power of the stallion in touch. He lightened his weight as only a fine horseman can do, shifting a few vital inches forward, and, with the burden falling more over his withers, El Sangre fled like a racer down the valley. Not that he was fully extended. His head was not stretched out as a cow pony’s head is stretched when he runs; he held it rather high, as though he carried in his big heart a reserve of strength ready to be called on for any emergency. For all that, it was running such as Terry had never known.

  The wind became a blast, jerking the brim of his sombrero up and whistling in his hair. The road poured underfoot. Bear Creek flashed past him. The great trunks of the silver spruce jerked away in groups. He was letting the shame, the grief, the thousand regrets of that parting with Aunt Elizabeth be blown out of his soul. His mind was a whirl; the thoughts became blurs. As a matter of fact, Terry was being reborn.

  He had lived a life perfectly sheltered. The care of Elizabeth Cornish had surrounded him as the Blue Mountains and Sleep Mountain surrounded Bear Valley and fenced off the full power of the storm winds. The reality of life had never reached him. He had been as far from great stresses as a man in a dream. Now, all in a day, the burden was placed on his back, and he felt the spur driven home to the quick. No wonder that he winced, that his heart contracted.

  But now that he was awakening everything was new. Uncle Vance, who he had always secretly despised, now seemed a fine character, gentle, cultured, thoughtful of others. Aunt Elizabeth Cornish he had accepted as a sort of natural fact, as though there were a blood tie between them. Now he was suddenly aware of twenty-four years of patient love. The sorrow of it, that only the loss of that love should have brought him realization of it. Vague thoughts and aspirations formed in his mind. He yearned toward some large and heroic deed that should reestablish himself in her respect. He wished to find her in need, in great trouble, free her from some crushing burden with one perilous effort, lay his homage at her feet.

  All of which meant that Terry Hollis was a boy—a bewildered, heart-stricken boy. Not that he would have undone what he had done. It seemed to him inevitable that he should resent the story of the sheriff and shoot him down or be shot down himself. All that he regretted was that he had remained mute before Aunt Elizabeth, unable to explain to her a thing that he felt so keenly. And for the first time he realized the flinty basis of her nature. The same thing that enabled her to give half a lifetime to the cherishing of a theory, also enabled her to cast all the result of that labor out of her life. It stung him again to the quick every time he thought of it. There was something wrong. He felt that a hundred hands of affection gave him hold on her. And yet all those grips were brushed away.

  The torment was setting him on fire. And the fire was burning away the smug complacency that had come to him during his long life in the valley.

  When El Sangre pulled out of his racing gallop and struck out up a slope at his natural gait, the ground-devouring pace, Terry Hollis was panting and twisting in the saddle as though the labor of the gallop had been his. They climbed and climbed, and still his mind was involved in a haze of thought. It cleared when he found that there were no longer high mountains before him. He drew El Sangre to a halt with a word. The great stallion turned his head as he paused and looked back to his master with a confiding eye as though waiting willingly for directions. And all at once the heart of Terence went out to the blood bay as it had never gone before to any creature, dumb or human. For El Sangre had known such pain as he himself was learning at this moment. El Sangre was giving him true trust, true love, and asking him for no return.

  Terry slipped from the saddle and, like an impulsive child, put his arms around the neck of the stallion. El Sangre winced and quivered. He was not accustomed to such things. But grief is the first passion that dumb animals come to understand. The stallion presently stood perfectly quiet, sniffing gently at the back of his master’s head, and the wind caught up his shining black mane and blew it over the face of Terry.

  The perfect quiet of the stallion brought Terry back to his senses at length. It was like wakening from a dream. He found himself with a heart swelling and aching, such a pain as turns into tears in boyhood. And while he looked about him, his hand wandered automatically over the fine head and the shining neck of El Sangre.

  The stallion, following his own will, had branched off from the Bear Creek trail and climbed through the lower range of the Blue peaks. They were standing now on a mountain top. The red of the sunset filled the west and brought the sky close to them with the lower drifts of stained clouds. Eastward the winding length of Bear Creek was turning pink and purple in faint hues, and the waterfall beyond the house on Sleep Mountain was a shimmering glory. The Cornish Ranch had never seemed so beautiful to Terry as it was at this moment. It was a kingdom and he was leaving, the disinherited heir.

  Not that he longed for the possession of the place, but all that he had loved lived there. He went into the world with only a little money in his pockets. But that was nothing. As far as friends were concerned, he had none outside of Bear Valley. And few enough even there. He had never been communicative, never the outpouring nature that confides and gives and takes in friendship. He had held himself aloof and lived his own life. The result was that he had sowed on the rocks. The world outside of the valley was a desert to him.

  Something of this came to Terry as he stood on the mountain. But nothing clearly. He did not analyze. He only felt that he had lived wrong, and now he was desperately alone—save El Sangre. He turned to the beautiful horse with a deep and quiet emotion. He was changed. He himself could not dream it, but in the pain of the last few hours Terry had passed out of boyhood and become a man.

  He turned west to the blare of the sunset. Blue Mountains tumbled away in lessening ranges—beyond was Craterville, and he must go there today. That was the world to him just then. And something new passed through Terry. The world was below him; it lay at his feet with its hopes and its battles. And he was strong for the test. He raised himself in the stirrups and stretched his arms. From fingers to toes every muscle in his lithe body was strong and ready, and beneath was an abundant reservoir of nerve power ready to be loosed at a touch. He had been living in a dream. Now he would live in fact. And it was glorious to live!

  And when his arms fell, his right hand lodged instinctively on the butt of his revolver. It was a prophetic gesture, but there, again, was something that Terry Hollis did not understand.

  He called to El Sangre softly. The stallion responded with the faintest of whinnies to the vibrant power in the voice of the master, and, at that smooth, effortless pace, he glided down the hillside, weaving dexterously among the jagged outcroppings of rock. A period had been placed after Terry’s old life. And this was how he rode into the new.

  The long and ever-changing mountain twilight began as he wound through the lower ranges. And when the full dark came, he broke from the last sweep of foothills and El Sangre roused to a gallop over the level toward Craterville.

  He had been in the town before, of course. But he felt this evening that he had really ne
ver seen it before. On other days what existed outside of Bear Valley did not very much matter. That was the hub around which the rest of the world revolved, so far as Terry was concerned. It was very different now. Craterville in fact was a huddle of broken-down houses among a great scattering of boulders with the big mountains plunging up on every side to the dull blue of the night sky.

  But Craterville was also something more. It was a place where several hundred human beings lived, any one of whom might be the decisive influence in the life of Terry. Young men and old men were in that town, cunning and strength; old crones and lovely girls were there. Who would he meet? What should he see? A sudden kindness toward others poured through Terry Hollis. After all, every man might be a treasure to him. A queer choking came in his throat when he thought of all that he had missed by his contemptuous aloofness.

  One thing gave him check. This was primarily the sheriff’s town, and by this time they knew all about the shooting. But what of that? He had fought fairly, almost too fairly.

  He passed the first shapeless shack. The hoofs of El Sangre bit into the dust, choking and red in daylight, and acrid of scent by the night. Every yellow window, every open, lighted doorway, was a separate shock to Terry in passing. The life of a family lay behind every light. Prospective friends, prospective enemies—what a mystery, what a fairy tale this world was.

  All was very quiet except for a stir of voices in the distance here and there, always kept hushed as though the speaker felt and acknowledged the influence of the profound night in the mountains. Someone came down the street carrying a lantern. It turned his steps into vast spokes of shadows that rushed back and forth across the houses with the swing of the light. The lantern light gleamed on the flank of El Sangre.

  “Halloo, Jake, that you?”

  The man with the lantern raised it, but its light merely served to blind him. Terry passed on without a word and heard the other mutter behind him: “Some damn’ stranger.”

  Perhaps strangers were not welcome in Craterville. At least, it seemed so when he reached the hotel after putting up his horse in the shed behind the old building. Half a dozen dark forms sat on the verandah talking in the subdued voices that he had noted before. Terry stepped through the lighted doorway. There was no one inside.

  “Want something?” called a voice from the porch. The widow Rickson came in to him.

  “A room, please,” said Terry.

  But she was gaping at him. “You! Terence . . . Hollis!”

  A thousand things seemed to be in that last word, which she brought out with a shrill ring of her voice. Terry noted that the talking on the porch was cut off as though a hand had been clapped over the mouth of every man. He recalled that the widow had been long a friend of the sheriff and was suddenly embarrassed. But what could he say?

  “If you have a spare room, Missus Rickson. Otherwise, I’ll find . . .”

  Her manner had changed. It became as strangely ingratiating as it had been horrified, suspicious before.

  “Sure I got a room. Best in the house if you want it. And . . . you’ll be hungry, Mister . . . Hollis?”

  He wondered why she insisted so savagely on that new-found name? He admitted that he was very hungry from his ride, and she led him back to the kitchen and gave him cold ham and coffee and vast slices of bread and butter.

  She did not talk much while he ate, and he noted that she asked no questions. She merely stood about and eyed him in strange, hungry fashion as though she grudged each morsel he ate. Afterward she led him through the silence of the place up to the second story and gave him a room at the corner of the building. He thanked her. She paused at the door with her hand on the knob, and her eyes fixed him through and through with a glittering, hostile stare. A wisp of her gray hair had fallen across her cheek, and there it was plastered to the skin with sweat, for the evening was warm.

  “No trouble,” she muttered at length. “None at all. Make yourself to home, Mister . . . Hollis.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  When the door closed on her, Terry remained standing in the middle of the room, watching the flame in the oil lamp she had lighted flare and rise at the corner, and then steady down to an even line of yellow, but he was not seeing it. He was listening to that peculiar silence in the house. It seemed to have spread over the entire village, and he heard no more of those casual noises that he had noticed on his coming.

  He went to the window and raised it to let whatever wind was abroad enter the musty warmth of the room. He raised the sash with stealthy caution, wondering at his own stealthiness. And he was oddly glad when the window rose without a squeak. He leaned out and looked up and down the street. It was unchanged. Across the way a door flung open, a child darted out with shrill laughter and dodged about the corner of the house, escaping after some mischief. A fat woman came to the entrance and muttered some heavy-voiced threats, and then banged the door.

  After that the silence again, except that before long a murmur began on the verandah beneath him where the half-dozen obscure figures had been sitting when he entered. Why should they be mumbling to themselves? He thought he could distinguish the sinister voice of the widow Rickson among the rest, but he shrugged that idle thought away and turned back into his room.

  He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his boots, but the minute they were off he was ill at ease. There was something sinisterly oppressive about the atmosphere of this rickety old hotel. What sort of a world was this he had entered with its whispers, its cold glances?

  He cast himself back on his bed, determined to be at ease. Nevertheless his heart kept bumping absurdly. Now Terry began to grow angry. With the feeling that there was 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 is careless, conversational rapping, 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 a 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. That 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 ph
antom.

  “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?” said 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 that 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 in his weird way. “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 of 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?”