Black Jack

CHAPTER 32

It was as if a gate which had hitherto been closed against him in the Pollard house were now opened. They no longer held back from Terry, but admitted him freely to their counsels. But the first person to whom he spoke was Slim Dugan. There was a certain nervousness about Slim this evening, and a certain shame. For he felt that in the morning, to an extent, he had backed down from the quarrel with young Black Jack. The killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die; for he felt that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gunplay. And everyone knew it.

The moment there was silence the son of Black Jack went straight to Slim Dugan.

“Slim,” he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, “a fellow isn't himself before noon. I've been thinking over that little trouble we had this morning, and I've made up my mind that if there were any fault it was mine for taking a joke too seriously. At any rate, if it's agreeable to you, Slim, I'd like to shake hands and call everything square. But if there's going to be any ill will, let's have it out right now.”

Slim Dugan wrung the hand of Terry without hesitation.

“If you put it that way,” he said cordially, “I don't mind saying that I was damned wrong to heave that stone at the hoss. And I apologize, Terry.”

And so everything was forgotten. Indeed, where there had been enmity before, there was now friendship. And there was a breath of relief drawn by every member of the gang. The peacemaking tendency of Hollis had more effect on the others than a dozen killings. They already granted that he was formidable. They now saw that he was highly desirable also.

Dinner that night was a friendly affair, except that Kate stayed in her room with a headache. Johnny the Chinaman smuggled a tray to her. Oregon Charlie went to the heart of matters with one of his rare speeches:

“You hear me talk, Hollis. She's mad because you've stepped off. She'll get over it all right.”

Oregon Charlie had a right to talk. It was an open secret that he had loved Kate faithfully ever since he joined the gang. But apparently Terry Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider; the mutter of his hoofs swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.

“It's Sandy,” he fired over his shoulder in explanation.

A weary-looking fellow came into the room, swinging his hat to knock the dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken, and no more.

“News?” said Pollard.

“News,” grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.

Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvellous expedition, keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk.

“First thing,” he said now—and utter silence spread around the table as he began to talk—“first thing is that McGuire is coming. I seen him on the trail, cut to the left and took the short way. He ought to be loping in almost any minute.”

Terry saw the others looking straight at Pollard; the leader was thoughtful for a moment.

“Is he coming with a gang, Sandy?”

“Nope—alone.”

“He was always a nervy cuss. Someday—”

He left the sentence unfinished. Denver had risen noiselessly.

“I'm going to beat it for my bunk,” he announced. “Let me know when the sheriff is gone.”

“Sit where you are, Denver. McGuire ain't going to lay hands on you.”

“Sure he ain't,” agreed Denver. “But I ain't partial to having guys lay eyes on me, neither. Some of you can go out and beat up trouble. I like to stay put.”

And he glided out of the room with no more noise than a sliding shadow. He had hardly disappeared when a heavy hand beat at the door.

“That's McGuire,” announced Pollard. “Let him in, Phil.” So saying, he twitched his gun out of the holster, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back.

“Don't try nothing till you see me put my hand into my beard, boys. He don't mean much so long as he's come alone.”

Marvin drew back the door. Terry saw a man with shoulders of martial squareness enter. And there was a touch of the military in his brisk step and the curt nod he sent at Marvin as he passed the latter. He had not taken off his sombrero. It cast a heavy shadow across the upper part of his worn, sad face.

“Evening, sheriff,” came from Pollard, and a muttered chorus from the others repeated the greeting. The sheriff cast his glance over them like a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture.

“Evening, boys.”

“Sit down, McGuire.”

“I'm only staying a minute. I'll talk standing.” It was a declaration of war.

“I guess this is the first time I been up here, Pollard?”

“The very first, sheriff.”

“Well, if I been kind of neglectful, it ain't that I'm not interested in you-all a heap!”

He brought it out with a faint smile; there was no response to that mirth.

“Matter of fact, I been keeping my eye on you fellows right along. Now, I ain't up here to do no accusing. I'm up here to talk to you man to man. They's been a good many queer things happen. None of 'em in my county, mind you, or I might have done some talking to you before now. But they's been a lot of queer things happen right around in the mountains; and some of 'em has traced back kind of close to Joe Pollard's house as a starting point. I ain't going to go any further. If I'm wrong, they ain't any harm done; if I'm right, you know what I mean. But I tell you this, boys— we're a long-sufferin' lot around these parts, but they's some things that we don't stand for, and one of 'em that riles us particular much is when a gent that lays out to be a regular hardworking rancher—even if he ain't got much of a ranch to talk about and work about—takes mankillers under their wings. It ain't regular, and it ain't popular around these parts. I guess you know what I mean.”

Terry expected Pollard to jump to his feet. But there was no such response. The other men stared down at the table, their lips working. Pollard alone met the eye of the sheriff.

The sheriff changed the direction of his glance. Instantly, it fell on Terry and stayed there.

“You're the man I mean; you're Terry Hollis, Black Jack's son?”

Terry imitated the others and did not reply.

“Oh, they ain't any use beating about the bush. You got Black Jack's blood in you. That's plain. I remember your old man well enough.”

Terry rose slowly from his chair.

“I think I'm not disputing that, sheriff. As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of my father.”

“I think you are,” said the sheriff gravely. “I think you are—damned proud of him. So proud you might even figure on imitating what he done in the old days.”

“Perhaps,” said Terry. The imp of the perverse was up in him now, urging him on.

“Step soft, sheriff,” cried Pollard suddenly, as though he sensed a crisis of which the others were unaware. “Terry, keep hold on yourself!”

The sheriff waved the cautionary advice away.

“My nerves are tolerable good, Pollard,” he said coldly. “The kid ain't scaring me none. And now hark to me, Black Jack. You've got away with two gents already—two that's known, I mean. Minter was one and Larrimer was two. Both times it was a square break. But I know your kind like a book. You're going to step over the line pretty damn pronto, and when you do, I'm going to get you, friend, as sure as the sky is blue! You ain't going to do what your dad done before you. I'll tell you why. In the old days the law was a joke. But it's tolerable strong now. You hear me talk—get out of these here parts and stay out. We don't want none of your kind.”

There was a flinching of the men about the table. They had seen the tigerish suddenness with which Terry's temper could flare—they had received an object lesson that morning. But to their amazement he remained perfectly cool under fire. He sauntered a little closer to the sheriff.

“I'll tell you, McGuire,” he said gently. “Your great mistake is in talking too much. You've had a good deal of success, my friend. So much that your head is turned. You're quite confident that no one will invade your special territory; and you keep your sympathy for neighboring counties. You pity the sheriffs around you. Now listen to me. You've branded me as a criminal in advance. And I'm not going to disappoint you. I'm going to try to live up to your high hopes. And what I do will be done right in your county, my friend. I'm going to make the sheriffs pityyou , McGuire. I'm going to make your life a small bit of hell. I'm going to keep you busy. And now—get out! And before you judge the next man that crosses your path, wait for the advice of twelve good men and true. You need advice, McGuire. You need it to beat hell! Start on your way!”

His calmness was shaken a little toward the end of this speech and his voice, at the close, rang sharply at McGuire. The latter considered him from beneath frowning brows for a moment and then, without another word, without a glance to the others and a syllable of adieu, turned and walked slowly, thoughtfully, out of the room. Terry walked back to his place. As he sat down, he noticed that every eye was upon him, worried.

“I'm sorry that I've had to do so much talking,” he said. “And I particularly apologize to you, Pollard. But I'm tired of being hounded. As a matter of fact, I'm now going to try to play the part of the hound myself. Action, boys; action is what we must have, and action right in this county under the nose of the complacent McGuire!”