Son of an Outlaw Page 8

  “Tell us how you came to branch out, Sheriff Minter?”

  “Ain’t I making you kind of tired with all this talk?” said the sheriff.

  There was an appreciative chorus of denial. Most of the people there had heard the same stories in the same words three or four times, at least, but really the stories were good enough to stand repetition. What most men dreaded was not the present but the future, and many a man shuddered at the idea of the sheriff as a table companion.

  “It was this way,” began the sheriff, while Elizabeth cast at Vance a glance of frantic and weary appeal, to which he responded with a gesture that indicated that the cause was lost.

  “I was brung up mighty proper. I had a most amazing lot of prayers at the tip of my tongue when I wasn’t no more’n knee-high to a grasshopper. But when a man has got a fire in him, they ain’t no use trying to smother it. You either got to put water on it or else let it burn itself out.

  “My old man didn’t see it that way. When I got to cutting up, he’d try to smother it, and stop me by saying . . . ‘Don’t!’ Which don’t accomplish nothing with young gents that got any spirit. Not a damn’ thing . . . asking your pardon, ladies. Well, sirs, he kept me in harness, you might say, and pulling dead straight down the road and working hard and faithful, and never stepping out on no parties like the other boys, and never swearing none in particular, till I was close onto eighteen years old. But all the time I’d been saving up steam, and swelling and swelling and getting pretty near ready to bust.

  “Well, sirs, pretty soon . . . we was living in Garrison City them days, when Garrison wasn’t near the town that it is now . . . along comes word that Jack Hollis is around. Some of you older folks remember Jack Hollis. But a lot of you younger folks ain’t never heard nothing about him. But in his day Jack Hollis was as bad as they was made. They was nothing that Jack wouldn’t turn to real handy, from shooting up a town to sticking up a train or a stage. And he done it all just about as well. He was one of them universal experts. He could blow a safe as neat as you’d ask. And if it come to a gunfight, he was greased lightning with a flying start. That was Jack Hollis.” The sheriff paused to draw breath.

  “Perhaps,” said Elizabeth Cornish, white about the lips, “we had better go into the living room to hear the rest of the sheriff’s story?”

  It was not a very skillful diversion, but Elizabeth had reached the point of utter desperation. And on the way into the living room unquestionably she would be able to divert Terry to something else. Vance held his breath.

  And it was Terry who signed his own doom. “We’re very comfortable here, Aunt Elizabeth. Let’s not go in till the sheriff has finished his story.”

  The sheriff rewarded him with a flash of gratitude, and Vance settled back in his chair. The end could not, now, be far away.

  Chapter Eleven

  “I was saying,” proceeded the sheriff, “that they scared their babies in these here parts with the name of Jack Hollis. Which they sure done. Well, sir, he was bad.”

  “Not all bad, surely,” put in Vance. “I’ve heard a good many stories about the generosity of . . .” He was anxious to put in the name of Black Jack since the sheriff was sticking so close to Jack Hollis, which was a name that Terry had not yet heard for his dead father. But before he could get out the name, the sheriff, angry at the interruption, resumed the smooth current of his tale with a side flash at Vance.

  “Not all bad, you say? Generous? Sure he was generous. Them that live outside the law has got to be generous to keep a gang around ’em. Not that Hollis ever played with a gang much, but he had hangers-on all over the mountains and gents that he had done good turns for and hadn’t gone off and talked about it. But that was just common sense. He knew he’d need friends that he could trust if he ever got in trouble. If he was wounded, they had to be some place where he could rest up. Ain’t that so? Well, sir, that’s what the goodness of Jack Hollis amounted to. No, sir, he was bad. Plumb bad and all bad.

  “But he had them qualities that a young gent with an imagination is apt to cotton to. He was free with his money. He dressed like a dandy. He’d gamble with hundreds, and then give back half of his winnings if he’d broke the gent that run the bank. Them was the sort of things that Jack Hollis would do. And I had my head full of him. Well, about the time that he come to the neighborhood, I sneaked out of the house one night and went off to a dance with a girl that I was sweet on. And when I come back, I found Dad waiting up for me, ready to skin me alive. He didn’t realize that I was outside the licking size. He tried to give me a clubbing. I kicked the stick out of his hands and swore that I’d leave and never come back. Which I never done, living up to my word proper. But when I found myself outside in the night, I says to myself . . . ‘Where shall I go now?’

  “And then, being sort of sick at the world, and hating Dad particular, I decided to go out and join Jack Hollis. I got a loan of a horse and out I went. I was going to go bad. Mostly to cut up Dad, I reckon, and not because I wanted to, particular.

  “It wasn’t hard to find Jack Hollis. Not for a kid my age that was sure not to be no officer of the law. Besides, they didn’t go out single and hunt for Hollis. They went in gangs of a half a dozen at a time, or more if they could get ’em. And even then they mostly got cleaned up when they cornered Hollis. Yes, sir, he made life sad for the sheriffs in them parts that he favored most. He spoiled more good reputations than any other ten men that ever I hear tell of, did Jack Hollis.

  “I found Jack toasting bacon over a fire. He had two gents with him, and they brung me in, finding me sneaking around like a fool kid, instead of walking right into camp. Jack sized me up in a minute. He was a fine-looking boy, was Hollis. Straight as an arrow and strong as a bull and limber as a willow sapling, was Jack. He gimme a look out of them fine black eyes of his that I won’t never forget. Aye, a handsome scoundrel, that Hollis.”

  Elizabeth Cornish sank back in her chair and covered her eyes with her hands for a moment. To the others it seemed that she was merely rubbing weary eyes. But her brother knew perfectly that she was near to fainting. He looked at Terry and saw that the boy was following the tale with sparkling eyes.

  “I like what you say about this Hollis, Sheriff,” he ventured softly.

  “Do you? Well, so did I like what I seen of him that night, for all I knew that he was a no-good man-killing heartless sort. I told him right off that I wanted to join him. I even up and give him an exhibition of shooting. And what do you think he says to me?

  “‘You go home to your ma, young man.’

  “That’s what he said.

  “‘I ain’t got a mother living,’ I says.

  “‘Ah, lad,’ says he, ‘that’s too bad. You sure need one a power. Then go back to your dad. He’ll serve two purposes.’

  “‘I’ve swore I’ll never go back to him,’ says I.

  “‘Ah,’ says he, ‘I see how it is. A little fight between you and your father, eh? Now, son, you take my advice and go back and ask his pardon. Maybe you think he’s a hard man? You step out and you’ll find that the world’s a damned sight harder.’

  “That’s what he says to me.

  “‘I ain’t a baby,’ says I to Jack Hollis. ‘I’m a grown man. I’m ready to fight your way.’

  “‘Any fool can fight,’ says Jack Hollis. ‘But a gent with any sense don’t have to fight. You can lay to that, son.’

  “‘Don’t call me son,’ says I. ‘I’m older than you was when you started out.’

  “‘I’d had my heart busted before I started,’ Jack Hollis tells me. ‘Are you as old as that, son? By the look of the dull eye of yours, you ain’t sure that you even got a heart yet. You go back home and don’t bother me no more. I’ll come back in five years and see if you’re still in the same mind.’

  “And that was what I seen of Jack Hollis. So I went back into town . . . Garrison City. I slept over the stables the rest of that night. The next day I loafed around town not hardly noways k
nowing what I was going to do. Then I was loafing around with my rifle, like I was going out on a hunting trip that afternoon. And pretty soon I heard a lot of noise coming down the street, guns and what not. I look out the window and there comes Jack Hollis, hell-bent. Jack Hollis! And then it pops into my head that they was a big price, for them days, on Jack’s head. I picked up my gun and eased it over the sill of the window and got a good bead. Jack turned in his saddle. . . .”

  There was a faint groan from Elizabeth Cornish. All eyes focused on her in amazement. She mustered a smile. The story went on.

  “When Jack turned to blaze away at them that was piling out around the corner of the street, I let the gun go, and I drilled him clean. Great sensation, gents, to have a life under your trigger. Just beckon one mite of an inch and a life goes scooting up to heaven or down to hell. I never got over seeing Hollis spill sidewise out of that saddle. There he was a minute before better’n any five men when it come to fighting. And now he wasn’t nothing but a lot of trouble to bury. Just so many pounds of flesh. You see? Well, sir, the price on Black Jack set me up in life and gimme my start. After that I sort of specialized in manhunting, and I’ve kept on ever since.”

  Terry leaned across the table, his left arm outstretched to call the sheriff’s attention. “I didn’t catch that last name, Sheriff,” he said.

  The talk was already beginning to bubble up at the end of the sheriff’s tale. But there was something in the tone of the boy that cut through the talk to its root. People were suddenly looking at him out of eyes that were very wide indeed. And it was not hard to find a reason. His handsome face was colorless, like a carving from the stone, and under his knitted brows his black eyes were ominous in the shadow. The sheriff frankly gaped at him. It was another man who sat across the table in the chair where the ingenuous youth had been a moment before.

  “What name? Jack Hollis?”

  “I think the name you used was Black Jack, Sheriff?”

  “Black Jack? Sure. That was the other name for Jack Hollis. He was mostly called Black Jack for short, but that was chiefly among his partners. Outside, he was called Jack Hollis, which was his real name.”

  Terence rose from his chair, more colorless than ever, the knuckles of one hand resting upon the table. He seemed very tall, years older, grim.

  “Terry!” called Elizabeth Cornish softly.

  It was like speaking to a stone.

  “Gentlemen,” said Terry, though his eyes never left the face of the sheriff, and it was obvious that he was making his speech to one pair of ears alone. “I have been living among you under the name of Colby . . . Terence Colby. It seems an appropriate moment to say that this is not my name. After what the sheriff has just told you, it may be of interest to know that my real name is Hollis. Terence Hollis is my name and my father was Jack Hollis, commonly known as Black Jack, it seems from the story of the sheriff. I also wish to say that I am announcing my parentage not because I wish to apologize for it . . . in spite of the rather remarkable narrative of the sheriff . . . but because I am proud of it.”

  He lifted his head while he spoke. And his eye went boldly, calmly down the table. A thrilling glance to follow or to receive. Each man and woman was shocked into electric interest as the gaze fell on them.

  “This could not have been expected before, because none of you knew my father’s name. I confess that I did not know it myself until a very short time ago. Otherwise I should not have listened to the sheriff’s story until the end. Hereafter, however, when any of you are tempted to talk about Black Jack or Jack Hollis, remember that his son is alive . . . and in good health.”

  He was even smiling in a mirthless way as he finished. And he hung in his place for an instant as though he were ready to hear a reply. But the table was stunned. Then Terry turned on his heel and left the room.

  It was the signal for a general upstarting from the table, a pushing back of chairs, a gathering around Elizabeth Cornish. She was as white as Terry had been while he talked. But there was a gathering excitement in her eye, and happiness. The sheriff was full of apologies. He would rather have had his tongue torn out by the roots than to have offended her or the young man with his story.

  She waved the sheriff’s apology aside. It was unfortunate but it could not have been helped. They all realized that. She guided her guests into the living room, and on the way she managed to drift close to her brother.

  Her eyes were on fire with her triumph. “You heard, Vance? You saw what he did?”

  There was a haunted look about the face of Vance, who had seen his high-built scheme topple about his head.

  “He did even better than I expected, Elizabeth. Thank heaven for it.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Terrance Hollis had gone out of the room and up the stairs like a man stunned, or walking in his sleep. Not until he stepped into the familiar room did the blood begin to return to his face, and with the warmth there was a growing sensation of uneasiness.

  Something was wrong. Something had to be righted. So much had happened to him within the last twenty-four hours that his brain sang with the thought of it. And gradually his mind cleared. The thing that was wrong was that the man who had killed his father was now under the same roof with him, had shaken his hand, had sat in bland complacency and looked in his face and told of the butchery.

  Butchery it was, according to Terry’s standards. For the sake of the price on the head of the outlaw, young Minter had shoved his rifle across a window sill, taken his aim, and with no risk to himself had shot down the wild rider. His heart stood up in his throat with revulsion at the thought of it. Murder, horrible and cold-blooded, the more horrible because it was legal.

  His memory drifted back to other features of the tale, the consummate gentleness and right-mindedness of Black Jack Hollis in sending the youth back to his home. What save the judgment of Hollis had kept the sheriff himself from a career of crime? And yet he had shot down the man like a mad dog, for the sake of a price on his head.

  Terry writhed at the thought. Writhed, and instinctively went to the window and threw it up. The cool wind caught at his face and throat. He saw, vaguely, the outlines of the Blue Mountains and the lofty pyramid of Mount Discovery wedged into the steel-blue of the sky. He saw these things without thinking of them. Something had to be done. What was it?

  And when he turned, what he saw was the gun cabinet with a shimmer of light on the barrels. Then he knew. He selected his favorite Colt and drew it out. It was loaded, and the action in perfect condition. He weighed it sensitively in his hand. Many and many an hour he had toyed with that gun. Many and many an hour he had practiced and blazed away hundreds of rounds of ammunition with it. It responded to his touch like a muscular part of his own body. It was something sentient and alive to his thought.

  He shoved it under his coat, and, walking down the stairs, again the chill of the steel worked through to his flesh. He went back to the kitchen and called out Wu Chi. The latter came shuffling in his slippers, nodding, grinning in anticipation of compliments.

  “Wu,” came the short demand, “can you keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told to do?”

  “Wu try,” said the Chinaman, grave as a yellow image instantly.

  “Then go to the living room and tell Mister Gainor and Sheriff Minter that Mister Harkness is waiting for them outside and wishes to see them on business of the most urgent nature. It will only be the matter of a moment. Now go. Gainor and the sheriff. Don’t forget.”

  He received a scared glance, and then went out onto the verandah and sat down to wait. That was the right way, he felt. His father would have called the sheriff to the door, in a similar situation, and after one brief challenge they would have gone for their guns. But there was another way, and that was the way of the Colbys. Their way was right. They lived like gentlemen, and, above all, they fought always like gentlemen.

  Presently the screen door opened, squeaked twice, and then closed with a hum of the screen a
s it slammed. Steps approached him. He got up from the chair and faced them, Gainor and the sheriff. The sheriff had instinctively put on his hat, like a man who does not understand the open air with an uncovered head. But Gainor was uncovered, and his white hair glimmered. He was a tall, courtly old fellow. His ceremonious address had won him much political influence. Men said that Gainor was courteous to a dog, not because he respected the dog, but because he wanted to practice for a man. And he was never to be taken by surprise. He had always the correct rejoinder, always did the right thing. He had a thin, stern face, very full-fleshed about the chin, and a hawk nose that gave him a cast of ferocity in certain aspects.

  It was to him that Terry addressed himself. “Mister Gainor,” he said, “I’m sorry to have sent in a false message. But my business is very urgent, and I have a very particular reason for not wishing to have it known that I have called you out.”

  The moment he rose out of the chair and faced them, Gainor had stopped short. He was quite capable of fast thinking, and now his glance flickered from Terry to the sheriff and back again. It was plain that he had shrewd suspicions as to the purpose behind that call. The sheriff was merely confused. He flushed as much as his tanned-leather skin permitted. As for Terry, the moment his glance fell on the sheriff he felt his muscles jump into hard ridges, and an almost uncontrollable desire to go at the throat of the other seized him. He quelled that desire and fought it back with a chill of fear. For it seemed to him that the sight of the sheriff had made him another man, put a new soul inside him.

  My father’s blood working out, he thought to himself. And he fastened his attention on Mr. Gainor and tried to shut the picture of the sheriff out of his brain. But it lingered there in the corner of his mind. It was a keen and steady torture. The desire to leap at the tall man was as consuming as the passion for water in the desert. And with a shudder of horror he found himself without a moral scruple. Just behind the thin partition of his willpower there was a raging fury to get at Joe Minter. He wanted to kill. He wanted to snuff that life out as the life of Black Jack Hollis had been snuffed. He wanted, most of all, to feel the last pulse stagger and weaken and go out under the power of his fingertips. That, he felt, was the soul of his father come back to earth in his body. And he fled from the impulse. He kept saying to himself: How must a Colby meet this crisis, for the Colbys knew how to do the right thing?