There were not many guests. Elizabeth had chosen them carefully from families which had known her father, Henry Cornish, when, in his reckless, adventurous way, he had been laying the basis of the Cornish fortune in the Rockies. Indeed, she was a little angry when she heard of the indiscriminate way in which Vance had scattered the invitations, particularly in Craterville.
But, as he said, he had acted so as to show her that he had entered fully into the spirit of the thing, and that his heart was in the right place as far as this birthday party was concerned, and she could not do otherwise than accept his explanation.
Some of the bidden guests, however, came from a great distance, and as a matter of course a few of them arrived the day before the celebration and filled the quiet rooms of the old house with noise. Elizabeth accepted them with resignation, and even pleasure, because they all had pleasant things to say about her father and good wishes to express for the destined heir, Terence Colby. It was carefully explained that this selection of an heir had been made by both Elizabeth and Vance, which removed all cause for remark. Vance himself regarded the guests with distinct amusement. But Terence was disgusted.
What these true Westerners need, he said to Elizabeth later in the day, "is a touch of blood. No feeling of family or the dignity of family precedents out here."
It touched her shrewdly. More than once she had felt that Terry was on the verge of becoming a complacent prig. So she countered with a sharp thrust.
You have to remember that you're a Westerner born and bred, my dear. A very Westerner yourself!
Birth is an accident—birthplaces, I mean, smiled Terence. "It's the blood that tells."
Terry, you're a snob! exclaimed Aunt Elizabeth.
I hope not, he answered. "But look yonder, now!"
Old George Armstrong's daughter, Nelly, had gone up a tree like a squirrel and was laughing down through the branches at a raw-boned cousin on the ground beneath her.
And what of it? said Elizabeth. "That girl is pretty enough to please any man; and she's the type that makes a wife."
Terry rubbed his chin with his knuckles thoughtfully. It was the one family habit that he had contracted from Vance, much to the irritation of the latter.
After all, said Terry, with complacency, "what are good looks with bad grammar?"
Elizabeth snorted literally and most unfemininely.
Terence, she said, lessoning him with her bony, long forefinger, "you're just young enough to be wise about women. When you're a little older, you'll get sense. If you want white hands and good grammar, how do you expect to find a wife in the mountains?"
Terry answered with unshaken, lordly calm. "I haven't thought about the details. They don't matter. But a man must have standards of criticism."
Standards your foot! cried Aunt Elizabeth. "You insufferable young prig. That very girl laughing down through the branches—I'll wager she could set your head spinning in ten seconds if she thought it worth her while to try."
Perhaps, smiled Terence. "In the meantime she has freckles and a vocabulary without growing pains."
All men are fools, declared Aunt Elizabeth; "but boys are idiots, bless 'em! Terence, before you grow up you'll have sore toes from stumbling, take my word for it! Do you know what a wise man would do?"
Well?
Go out and start a terrific flirtation with Nelly.
For the sake of experience? sighed Terence.
Good heavens! groaned Aunt Elizabeth. "Terry, you're impossible! Where are you going now?"
Out to see El Sangre.
He went whistling out of the door, and she followed him with confused feelings of anger, pride, joy, and fear. She went to a side window and saw him go fearlessly into the corral where the man-destroying El Sangre was kept. And the big stallion, red fire in the sunshine, went straight to him and nosed at a hip pocket. They had already struck up a perfect understanding. Deeply she wondered at it.
She had never loved the mountains and their people and their ways. It had been a battle to fight. She had fought the battle, won, and gained a hollow victory. And watching Terry caress the great, beautiful horse, she knew vaguely that his heart, at least, was in tune with the wilderness.
I wish to heaven, Terry, she murmured, "that you could find a master as
El Sangre has done. You need teaching."
When she turned from the window, she found Vance watching her. He had a habit of obscurely melting into a background and looking out at her unexpectedly. All at once she knew that he had been there listening during all of her talk with Terence. Not that the talk had been of a peculiarly private nature, but it angered her. There was just a semblance of eavesdropping about the presence of Vance. For she knew that Terence unbosomed himself to her as he would do in the hearing of no other human being. However, she mastered her anger and smiled at her brother. He had taken all these recent changes which were so much to his disadvantage with a good spirit that astonished and touched her.
Do you know what I'm going to give Terry for his birthday? he said, sauntering toward her.
Well? A mention of Terence and his welfare always disarmed her completely. She opened her eyes and her heart and smiled at her brother.
There's no set of Scott in the house. I'm going to give Terry one.
Do you think he'll ever read the novels? I never could. That antiquated style, Vance, keeps me at arm's length.
A stiff style because he wrote so rapidly. But there's the greatest body and bone of character. Except for his heroes. Terry reminds me of them, in a way. No thought, not very much feeling, but a great capacity for physical action.
I think you'd like to be Terry's adviser, she said.
I wouldn't aspire to the job, yawned Vance, "unless I could ride well and shoot well. If a man can't do that, he ceases to be a man in Terry's eyes. And if a woman can't talk pure English, she isn't a woman."
That's because he's young, said Elizabeth.
It's because he's a prig, sneered Vance. He had been drawn farther into the conversation than he planned; now he retreated carefully. "But another year or so may help him."
He retreated before she could answer, but he left her thoughtful, as he hoped to do. He had a standing theory that the only way to make a woman meditate is to keep her from talking. And he wanted very much to make Elizabeth meditate the evil in the son of Black Jack. Otherwise all his plans might be useless and his seeds of destruction fall on barren soil. He was intensely afraid of that, anyway. His hope was to draw the boy and the sheriff together on the birthday and guide the two explosives until they met on the subject of the death of Black Jack. Either Terry would kill the sheriff, or the sheriff would kill Terry. Vance hoped for the latter, but rather expected the former to be the outcome, and if it were, he was inclined to think that Elizabeth would sooner or later make excuses for Terry and take him back into the fold of her affections. Accordingly, his work was, in the few days that intervened, to plant all the seeds of suspicion that he could. Then, when the denouement came, those seeds might blossom overnight into poison flowers.
In the late afternoon he took up his position in an easy chair on the big veranda. The mail was delivered, as a rule, just before dusk, one of the cow-punchers riding down for it. Grave fears about the loss of that all- important missive to Terry haunted him, for the postmaster was a doddering old fellow who was quite apt to forget his head. Consequently he was vastly relieved when the mail arrived and Elizabeth brought the familiar big envelope out to him, with its typewritten address.
Looks like a business letter, doesn't it? she asked Vance.
More or less, said Vance, covering a yawn of excitement.
But how on earth could any business—it's postmarked from Craterville.
Somebody may have heard about his prospects; they're starting early to separate him from his money.
Vance, how much talking did you do in Craterville?
It was hard to meet her keen old eyes.
Too much, I'm afraid, he said frankly. "You see, I've felt rather touchy about the thing. I want people to know that you and I have agreed on making Terry the heir to the ranch. I don't want anyone to suspect that we differed. I suppose I talked too much about the birthday plans."
She sighed with vexation and weighed the letter in her hand.
I've half a mind to open it.
His heartbeat fluttered and paused.
Go ahead, he urged, with well-assured carelessness.
She shook down the contents of the envelope preparatory to opening it.
It's nothing but printed stuff, Vance. I can see that, through the envelope.
But wait a minute, Elizabeth. It might anger Terry to have even his business mail opened. He's touchy, you know.
She hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders.
I suppose you're right. Let it go. She laughed at her own concern over the matter. "Do you know, Vance, that sometimes I feel as if the whole world were conspiring to get a hand on Terry?"
Terry did not come down for dinner. It was more or less of a calamity, for the board was quite full of early guests for the next day's festivities. Aunt Elizabeth shifted the burden of the entertainment onto the capable shoulders of Vance, who could please these Westerners when he chose. Tonight he decidedly chose. Elizabeth had never see him in such high spirits. He could flirt good-humoredly and openly across the table at Nelly, or else turn and draw an anecdote from Nelly's father. He kept the reins in his hands and drove the talk along so smoothly that Elizabeth could sit in gloomy silence, unnoticed, at the farther end of the table. Her mind was up yonder in the room of Terry.
Something had happened, and it had come through that long business envelope with the typewritten address that seemed so harmless. One reading of the contents had brought Terry out of his chair with an exclamation. Then, without explanation of any sort, he had gone to his room and stayed there. She would have followed to find out what was the matter, but the requirements of dinner and her guests kept her downstairs.
Immediately after dinner Vance, at a signal from her, dexterously herded everyone into the living room and distributed them in comfort around the big fireplace; Elizabeth Cornish bolted straight for the room of Terence. She knocked and tried the door. To her astonishment, the knob turned, but the door did not open. She heard the click and felt the jar of the bolt. Terry had locked his door!
A little thing to make her heart fall, one would say, but little things about Terry were great things to Elizabeth. In twenty-four years he had never locked his door. What could it mean?
It was a moment before she could call, and she waited breathlessly. She was reassured by a quiet voice that answered her: "Just a moment. I'll open."
The tone was so matter-of-fact that her heart, with one leap, came back to normal and tears of relief misted her eyes for an instant. Perhaps he was up here working out a surprise for the next day—he was full of tricks and surprises. That was unquestionably it. And he took so long in coming to the door because he was hiding the thing he had been working on. As for food, Wu Chi was his slave and would have smuggled a tray up to him. Presently the lock turned and the door opened.
She could not see his face distinctly at first, the light was so strong behind him. Besides, she was more occupied in looking for the tray of food which would assure her that Terry was not suffering from some mental crisis that had made him forget even dinner. She found the tray, sure enough, but the food had not been touched.
She turned on him with a new rush of alarm. And all her fears were realized. Terry had been fighting a hard battle and he was still fighting. About his eyes there was the look, half-dull and half-hard, that comes in the eyes of young people unused to pain. A worried, tense, hungry face. He took her arm and led her to the table. On it lay an article clipped out of a magazine. She looked down at it with unseeing eyes. The sheets were already much crumbled. Terry turned them to a full- page picture, and Elizabeth found herself looking down into the face of Black Jack, proud, handsome, defiant.
Had Vance been there, he might have recognized her actions. As she had done one day twenty-four years ago, now she turned and dropped heavily into a chair, her bony hands pressed to her shallow bosom. A moment later she was on her feet again, ready to fight, ready to tell a thousand lies. But it was too late. The revelation had been complete and she could tell by his face that Terence knew everything.
Terry, she said faintly, "what on earth have you to do with that—"
Listen, Aunt Elizabeth, he said, "you aren't going to fib about it, are you?"
What in the world are you talking about?
Why were you so shocked?
She knew it was a futile battle. He was prying at her inner mind with short questions and a hard, dry voice.
"It was the face of that terrible man. I saw him once before, you know. On the day—
"On the day he was murdered!
That word told her everything. "Murdered!" It lighted all the mental processes through which he had been going. Who in all the reaches of the mountain desert had ever before dreamed of terming the killing of the notorious Black Jack a "murder"?
What are you saying, Terence? That fellow—
Hush! Look at us!
He picked up the photograph and stood back so that the light fell sharply on his face and on the photograph which he held beside his head. He caught up a sombrero and jammed it jauntily on his head. He tilted his face high, with resolute chin. And all at once there were two Black Jacks, not one. He evidently saw all the admission that he cared for in her face. He took off the hat with a dragging motion and replaced the photograph on the table.
I tried it in the mirror, he said quietly. "I wasn't quite sure until I tried it in the mirror. Then I knew, of course."
She felt him slipping out of her life.
What shall I say to you, Terence?
Is that my real name?
She winced. "Yes. Your real name."
Good. Do you remember our talk of today?
What talk?
He drew his breath with something of a groan.
I said that what these people lacked was the influence of family—of old blood!
He made himself smile at her, and Elizabeth trembled. "If I could explain—" she began.
Ah, what is there to explain, Aunt Elizabeth? Except that you have been a thousand times kinder to me than I dreamed before. Why, I—I actually thought that you were rather honored by having a Colby under your roof. I really felt that I was bestowing something of a favor on you!
Terry, sit down!
He sank into a chair slowly. And she sat on the arm of it with her mournful eyes on his face.
Whatever your name may be, that doesn't change the man who wears the name.
He laughed softly. "And you've been teaching me steadily for twenty-four years that blood will tell? You can't change like this. Oh, I understand it perfectly. You determined to make me over. You determined to destroy my heritage and put the name of the fine old Colbys in its place. It was a brave thing to try, and all these years how you must have waited, and waited to see how I would turn out, dreading every day some outbreak of the bad blood! Ah, you have a nerve of steel, Aunt Elizabeth! How have you endured the suspense?"
She felt that he was mocking her subtly under this flow of compliment.
But it was the bitterness of pain, not of reproach, she knew.
She said: "Why didn't you let me come up with you? Why didn't you send for me?"
I've been busy doing a thing that no one could help me with. I've been burning my dreams. He pointed to a smoldering heap of ashes on the hearth.
Terry!
Yes, all the Colby pictures that I've been collecting for the past fifteen years. I burned 'em. They don't mean anything to anyone else, and certainly they have ceased to mean anything to me. But when I came to Anthony Colby—the eighteen-twelve man, you know, the one who has always been my hero—it went pretty hard. I felt as if—I were burning my own personality. As a matter of fact, in the last couple of hours I've been born over again.
Terry paused. "And births are painful, Aunt Elizabeth!"
At that she cried out and caught his hand. "Terry dear! Terry dear! You break my heart!"
I don't mean to. You mustn't think that I'm pitying myself. But I want to know the real name of my father. He must have had some name other than Black Jack. What was it?
Are you going to gather his memory to your heart, Terry?
I am going to find something about him that I can be proud of. Blood will tell. I know that I'm not all bad, and there must have been good in Black Jack. I want to know all about him. I want to know about—his crimes.
He labored through a fierce moment of silent struggle while her heart went helplessly out to him.
Because—I had a hand in every one of those crimes! Everything that he did is something that I might have done under the same temptation.
But you're not all your father's son. You had a mother. A dear, sweet- faced girl—
Don't! whispered Terry. "I suppose he broke—her heart?"
She was a very delicate girl, she said after a moment.
And now my father's name, please?
Not that just now. Give me until tomorrow night, Terry. Will you do that? Will you wait till tomorrow night, Terry? I'm going to have a long talk with you then, about many things. And I want you to keep this in mind always. No matter how long you live, the influence of the Colbys will never go out of your life. And neither will my influence, I hope. If there is anything good in me, it has gone into you. I have seen to that. Terry, you are not your father's son alone. All these other things have entered into your make-up. They're just as much a part of you as his blood.
Ah, yes, said Terry. "But blood will tell!"
It was a mournful echo of a thing she had told him a thousand times.
She went straight down to the big living room and drew Vance away, mindless of her guests. He came humming until he was past the door and in the shadowy hall. Then he touched her arm, suddenly grown serious.
What's wrong, Elizabeth?
Her voice was low, vibrating with fierceness. And Vance blessed the dimness of the hall, for he could feel the blood recede from his face and the sweat stand on his forehead.
Vance, if you've done what I think you've done, you're lower than a snake, and more poisonous and more treacherous. And I'll cut you out of my heart and my life. You know what I mean?
It was really the first important crisis that he had ever faced. And now his heart grew small, cold. He knew, miserably, his own cowardice. And like all cowards, he fell back on bold lying to carry him through. It was a triumph that he could make his voice steady—more than steady. He could even throw the right shade of disgust into it.
Is this another one of your tantrums, Elizabeth? By heavens, I'm growing tired of 'em. You continually throw in my face that you hold the strings of the purse. Well, tie them up as far as I'm concerned. I won't whine. I'd rather have that happen than be tyrannized over any longer.
She was much shaken. And there was a sting in this reproach that carried home to her; there was just a sufficient edge of truth to wound her. Had there been much light, she could have read his face; the dimness of the hall was saving Vance, and he knew it.
God knows I'd like to believe that you haven't had anything to do with it. But you and I are the only two people in the world who know the secret of it—
He pretended to guess. "It's something about Terence? Something about his father?"
Again she was disarmed. If he were guilty, it was strange that he should approach the subject so openly. And she began to doubt.
"Vance, he knows everything! Everything except the real name of Black Jack!
"Good heavens!
She strained her eyes through the shadows to make out his real expression; but there seemed to be a real horror in his restrained whisper.
It isn't possible, Elizabeth!
It came in that letter. That letter I wanted to open, and which you persuaded me not to! She mustered all her damning facts one after another. "And it was postmarked from Craterville. Vance, you have been in Craterville lately!"
He seemed to consider.
Could I have told anyone? Could I, possibly? No, Elizabeth, I'll give you my word of honor that I've never spoken a syllable about that subject to anyone!
Ah, but what have you written?
I've never put pen to paper. But—how did it happen?
He had control of himself now. His voice was steadier. He could feel her recede from her aggressiveness.
It was dated after you left Craterville, of course. And—I can't stand imagining that you could be so low. Only, who else would have a motive?
But how was it done?
They sent him an article about his father and a picture of Black Jack that happens to look as much like Terry as two peas.
Then I have it! If the picture looks like Terry, someone took it for granted that he'd be interested in the similarity. That's why it was sent. Unless they told him that he was really Black Jack's son. Did the person who sent the letter do that?
There was no letter. Only a magazine clipping and the photograph of the painting.
They were both silent. Plainly she had dismissed all idea of her brother's guilt.
But what are we going to do, Elizabeth? And how has he taken it?
Like poison, Vance. He—he burned all the Colby pictures. Oh, Vance, twenty-four years of work are thrown away!
Nonsense! This will all straighten out. I'm glad he's found out. Sooner or later he was pretty sure to. Such things will come to light.
Vance, you'll help me? You'll forgive me for accusing you, and you'll help me to keep Terry in hand for the next few days? You see, he declared that he will not be ashamed of his father.
You can't blame him for that.
God knows I blame no one but myself.
I'll help you with every ounce of strength in my mind and body, my dear.
She pressed his hand in silence.
I'm going up to talk with him now, he said. "I'm going to do what I can with him. You go in and talk. And don't let them see that anything is wrong."
The door had not been locked again. He entered at the call of Terry and found him leaning over the hearth stirring up the pile of charred paper to make it burn more freely. A shadow crossed the face of Terry as he saw his visitor, but he banished it at once and rose to greet him. In his heart Vance was a little moved. He went straight to the younger man and took his hand.
Elizabeth has told me, he said gently, and he looked with a moist eye into the face of the man who, if his plans worked out, would be either murderer or murdered before the close of the next day. "I am very sorry, Terence."
I thought you came to congratulate me, said Terry, withdrawing his hand.
Congratulate you? echoed Vance, with unaffected astonishment.
For having learned the truth, said Terry. "Also, for having a father who was a strong man."
Vance could not resist the opening.
In a way, I suppose he was, he said dryly. "And if you look at it in that way, I do congratulate you, Terence!"
You've always hated me, Uncle Vance, Terry declared. "I've known it all these years. And I'll do without your congratulations."
You're wrong, Terry, said Vance. He kept his voice mild. "You're very wrong. But I'm old enough not to take offense at what a young spitfire says."
I suppose you are, retorted Terry, in a tone which implied that he himself would never reach that age.
And when a few years run by, went on Vance, "you'll change your viewpoint. In the meantime, my boy, let me give you this warning. No matter what you think about me, it is Elizabeth who counts."
Thanks. You need have no fear about my attitude to Aunt Elizabeth. You ought to know that I love her, and respect her.
Exactly. But you're headstrong, Terry. Very headstrong. And so is Elizabeth. Take your own case. She took you into the family for the sake of a theory. Did you know that?
The boy stiffened. "A theory?"
Quite so. She wished to prove that blood, after all, was more talk than a vital influence. So she took you in and gave you an imaginary line of ancestors with which you were entirely contented. But, after all, it has been twenty-four years of theory rather than twenty-four years of Terry. You understand?
It's a rather nasty thing to hear, said Terence huskily. "Perhaps you're right. I don't know. Perhaps you're right."
And if her theory is proved wrong—look out, Terry! She'll throw you out of her life without a second thought.
Is that a threat?
My dear boy, not by any means. You think I have hated you? Not at all. I have simply been indifferent. Now that you are in more or less trouble, you see that I come to you. And hereafter if there should be a crisis, you will see who is your true friend. Now, good night!
He had saved his most gracious speech until the very end, and after it he retired at once to leave Terence with the pleasant memory in his mind. For he had in his mind the idea of a perfect crime for which he would not be punished. He would turn Terry into a corpse or a killer, and in either case the youngster would never dream who had dealt the blow.
No wonder, then, as he went downstairs, that he stepped onto the veranda for a few moments. The moon was just up beyond Mount Discovery; the valley unfolded like a dream. Never had the estate seemed so charming to Vance Cornish, for he felt that his hand was closing slowly around his inheritance.
The sleep of the night seemed to blot out the excitement of the preceding evening. A bright sun, a cool stir of air, brought in the next morning, and certainly calamity had never seemed farther from the Cornish ranch than it did on this day. All through the morning people kept arriving in ones and twos. Every buckboard on the place was commissioned to haul the guests around the smooth roads and show them the estate; and those who preferred were furnished with saddle horses from the stable to keep their own mounts fresh for their return trip. Vance took charge of the wagon parties; Terence himself guided the horsemen, and he rode El Sangre, a flashing streak of blood red.
The exercise brought the color to his face; the wind raised his spirits; and when the gathering at the house to wait for the big dinner began, he was as gay as any.
That's the way with young people, Elizabeth confided to her brother.
Trouble slips off their minds.
And then the second blow fell, the blow on which Vance had counted for his great results. No less a person than Sheriff Joe Minter galloped up and threw his reins before the veranda. He approached Elizabeth with a high flourish of his hat and a profound bow, for Uncle Joe Minter affected the mannered courtesy of the "Southern" school. Vance had them in profile from the side, and his nervous glance flickered from one to the other. The sheriff was plainly pleased with what he had seen on his way up Bear Creek. He was also happy to be present at so large a gathering. But to Elizabeth his coming was like a death. Her brother could tell the difference between her forced cordiality and the real thing. She had his horse put up; presented him to the few people whom he had not met, and then left him posing for the crowd of admirers. Life to the sheriff was truly a stage. Then Elizabeth went to Vance.
You saw? she gasped.
Sheriff Minter? What of it? Rather nervy of the old ass to come up here for the party; he hardly knows us.
"No, no! Not that! But don't you remember? Don't you remember what Joe Minter did?
"Good Lord! gasped Vance, apparently just recalling. "He killed Black
Jack! And what will Terry do when he finds out?"
She grew still whiter, hearing him name her own fear.
They mustn't meet, she said desperately. "Vance, if you're half a man you'll find some way of getting that pompous, windy idiot off the place."
My dear! Do you want me to invite him to leave?
Something—I don't care what!
Neither do I. But I can't insult the fool. That type resents an insult with gunplay. We must simply keep them apart. Keep the sheriff from talking.
Keep rain from falling! groaned Elizabeth. "Vance, if you won't do anything, I'll go and tell the sheriff that he must leave!"
You don't mean it!
Do you think that I'm going to risk a murder?
I suppose you're right, nodded Vance, changing his tactics with Machiavellian smoothness. "If Terry saw the man who killed his father, all his twenty-four years of training would go up in smoke and the blood of his father would talk in him. There'd be a shooting!"
She caught a hand to her throat. "I'm not so sure of that, Vance. I think he would come through this acid test. But I don't want to take chances."
I don't blame you, Elizabeth, said her brother heartily. "Neither would I. But if the sheriff stays here, I feel that I'm going to win the bet that I made twenty-four years ago. You remember? That Terry would shoot a man before he was twenty-five?"
Have I ever forgotten? she said huskily. "Have I ever let it go out of my mind? But it isn't the danger of Terry shooting. It's the danger of Terry being shot. If he should reach for a gun against the sheriff—that professional mankiller—Vance, something has to be done!"
Right, he nodded. "I wouldn't trust Terry in the face of such a temptation to violence. Not for a moment!"
The natural stubbornness on which he had counted hardened in her face.
I don't know.
It would be an acid test, Elizabeth. But perhaps now is the time. You've spent twenty-four years training him. If he isn't what he ought to be now, he never will be, no doubt.
It may be that you're right, she said gloomily. "Twenty-four years! Yes, and I've filled about half of my time with Terry and his training. Vance, you are right. If he has the elements of a mankiller in him after what I've done for him, then he's a hopeless case. The sheriff shall stay! The sheriff shall stay!"
She kept repeating it, as though the repetition of the phrase might bring her courage. And then she went back among her guests.
As for Vance, he remained skillfully in the background that day. It was peculiarly vital, this day of all days, that he should not be much in evidence. No one must see in him a controlling influence.
In the meantime he watched his sister with a growing admiration and with a growing concern. Instantly she had a problem on her hands. For the moment Terence heard that the great sheriff himself had joined the party, he was filled with happiness. Vance watched them meet with a heart swelling with happiness and surety of success. Straight through a group came Terry, weaving his way eagerly, and went up to the sheriff. Vance saw Elizabeth attempt to detain him, attempt to send him on an errand. But he waved her suggestion away for a moment and made for the sheriff. Elizabeth, seeing that the meeting could not be avoided, at least determined to be present at it. She came up with Terence and presented him.
Sheriff Minter, this is Terence Colby.
I've heard of you, Colby, said the sheriff kindly. And he waited for a response with the gleaming eye of a vain man. There was not long to wait.
You've really heard of me? said Terry, immensely pleased. "By the Lord,
I've heard of you, sheriff! But, of course, everybody has."
I dunno, son, said the sheriff benevolently. "But I been drifting around a tolerable long time, I guess."
Why, said Terry, with a sort of outburst, "I've simply eaten up everything I could gather. I've even read about you in magazines!"
Well, now you don't say, protested the sheriff. "In magazines?"
And his eye quested through the group, hoping for other listeners who might learn how broadly the fame of their sheriff was spread.
That Canning fellow who travelled out West and ran into you and was along while you were hunting down the Garrison boys. I read his article.
The sheriff scratched his chin. "I disremember him. Canning? Canning? Come to think of it, I do remember him. Kind of a small man with washed- out eyes. Always with a notebook on his knee. I got sick of answering all that gent's questions, I recollect. Yep, he was along when I took the Garrison boys, but that little party didn't amount to much."
He thought it did, said Terry fervently. "Said it was the bravest, coolest-headed, cunningest piece of work he'd ever seen done. Perhaps you'll tell me some of the other things—the things you count big?"
Oh, I ain't done nothing much, come to think of it. All pretty simple, they looked to me, when I was doing them. Besides, I ain't much of a hand at talk!
Ah, said Terry, "you'd talk well enough to suit me, sheriff!"
The sheriff had found a listener after his own heart.
"They ain't nothing but a campfire that gives a good light to see a story by—the kind of stories I got to tell, he declared. ""Some of these days
"I'll take you along with me on a trail, son, if you'd like—and most like
I'll talk your arm off at night beside the fire. Like to come?"
Like to? cried Terry. "I'd be the happiest man in the mountains!"
Would you, now? Well, Colby, you and me might hit it off pretty well. I've heard tell you ain't half bad with a rifle and pretty slick with a revolver, too.
I practice hard, said Terry frankly. "I love guns."
Good things to love, and good things to hate, too, philosophized the sheriff. "But all right in their own place, which ain't none too big, these days. The old times is gone when a man went out into the world with a hoss under him, and a pair of Colts strapped to his waist, and made his own way. Them days is gone, and our younger boys is going to pot!"
I suppose so, admitted Terry.
But you got a spark in you, son. Well, one of these days we'll get together. And I hear tell you got El Sangre?
I was lucky, said Terry.
That's a sizable piece of work, Colby. I've seen twenty that run El Sangre, and never even got close enough to eat his dust. Nacheral pacer, right enough. I've seen him kite across country like a train! And his mane and tail blowing like smoke!
I got him with patience. That was all.
S'pose we take a look at him?
By all means. Just come along with me.
Elizabeth struck in.
Just a moment, Terence. There's Mr. Gainor, and he's been asking to see you. You can take the sheriff out to see El Sangre later. Besides, half a dozen people want to talk to the sheriff, and you mustn't monopolize him. Miss Wickson begged me to get her a chance to talk to you—the real Sheriff Minter. Do you mind?
Pshaw, said the sheriff. "I ain't no kind of a hand at talking to the womenfolk. Where is she?"
Down yonder, sheriff. Shall we go?
The old lady with the cane?
No, the girl with the bright hair.
Doggone me, muttered the sheriff. "Well, let's saunter down that way."
He waved to Terence, who, casting a black glance in the direction of Mr. Gainor, went off to execute Elizabeth's errand. Plainly Elizabeth had won the first engagement, but Vance was still confident. The dinner table would tell the tale.
Elizabeth left the ordering of the guests at the table to Vance, and she consulted him about it as they went into the dining room. It was a long, low-ceilinged room, with more windows than wall space. It opened onto a small porch, and below the porch was the garden which had been the pride of Henry Cornish. Beside the tall glass doors which led out onto the porch she reviewed the seating plans of Vance. "You at this end and I at the other," he said. "I've put the sheriff beside you, and right across from the sheriff is Nelly. She ought to keep him busy. The old idiot has a weakness for pretty girls, and the younger the better, it seems. Next to the sheriff is Mr. Gainor. He's a political power, and what time the sheriff doesn't spend on you and on Nelly he certainly will give to Gainor. The arrangement of the rest doesn't matter. I simply worked to get the sheriff well-pocketed and keep him under your eye."
But why not under yours, Vance? You're a thousand times more diplomatic than I am.
I wouldn't take the responsibility, for, after all, this may turn out to be a rather solemn occasion, Elizabeth.
You don't think so, Vance?
I pray not.
And where have you put Terence?
Next to Nelly, at your left.
Good heavens, Vance, that's almost directly opposite the sheriff. You'll have them practically facing each other.
It was the main thing he was striving to attain. He placated her carefully.
I had to. There's a danger. But the advantage is huge. You'll be there between them, you might say. You can keep the table talk in hand at that end. Flash me a signal if you're in trouble, and I'll fire a question down the table at the sheriff or Terry, and get their attention. In the meantime you can draw Terry into talk with you if he begins to ask the sheriff what you consider leading questions. In that way, you'll keep the talk a thousand leagues away from the death of Black Jack.
He gained his point without much more trouble. Half an hour later the table was surrounded by the guests. It was a table of baronial proportions, but twenty couples occupied every inch of the space easily. Vance found himself a greater distance than he could have wished from the scene of danger, and of electrical contact.
At least four zones of cross-fire talk intervened, and the talk at the farther end of the table was completely lost to him, except when some new and amazing dish, a triumph of Wu Chi's fabrication, was brought on, and an appreciative wave of silence attended it.
Or again, the mighty voice of the sheriff was heard to bellow forth in laughter of heroic proportions.
Aside from that, there was no information he could gather except by his eyes. And chiefly, the face of Elizabeth. He knew her like a book in which he had often read. Twice he read the danger signals. When the great roast was being removed, he saw her eyes widen and her lips contract a trifle, and he knew that someone had come very close to the danger line indeed. Again when dessert was coming in bright shoals on the trays of the Chinese servants, the glance of his sister fixed on him down the length of the table with a grim appeal. He made a gesture of helplessness. Between them four distinct groups into which the table talk had divided were now going at full blast. He could hardly have made himself heard at the other end of the table without shouting.
Yet that crisis also passed away. Elizabeth was working hard, but as the meal progressed toward a close, he began to worry. It had seemed impossible that the sheriff could actually sit this length of time in such an assemblage without launching into the stories for which he was famous. Above all, he would be sure to tell how he had started on his career as a manhunter by relating how he slew Black Jack.
Once the appalling thought came to Vance that the story must have been told during one of those moments when his sister had shown alarm. The crisis might be over, and Terry had indeed showed a restraint which was a credit to Elizabeth's training. But by the hunted look in her eyes, he knew that the climax had not yet been reached, and that she was continually fighting it away.
He writhed with impatience. If he had not been a fool, he would have taken that place himself, and then he could have seen to it that the sheriff, with dexterous guiding, should approach the fatal story. As it was, how could he tell that Elizabeth might not undo all his plans and cleverly keep the sheriff away from his favorite topic for an untold length of time? But as he told his sister, he wished to place all the seeming responsibility on her own shoulders. Perhaps he had played too safe.
The first ray of hope came to him as coffee was brought in. The prodigious eating of the cattlemen and miners at the table had brought them to a stupor. They no longer talked, but puffed with unfamiliar awkwardness at the fine Havanas which Vance had provided. Even the women talked less, having worn off the edge of the novelty of actually dining at the table of Elizabeth Cornish. And since the hostess was occupied solely with the little group nearest her, and there was no guiding mind to pick up the threads of talk in each group and maintain it, this duty fell more and more into the hands of Vance. He took up his task with pleasure.
Farther and farther down the table extended the sphere of his mild influence. He asked Mr. Wainwright to tell the story of how he treed the bear so that the tenderfoot author could come and shoot it. Mr. Wainwright responded with gusto. The story was a success. He varied it by requesting young Dobel to describe the snowslide which had wiped out the Vorheimer shack the winter before.
Young Dobel did well enough to make the men grunt at the end, and he brought several little squeals of horror from the ladies.
All of this was for a purpose. Vance was setting the precedent, and they were becoming used to hearing stories. At the end of each tale the silence of expectation was longer and wider. Finally, it reached the other end of the table, and suddenly the sheriff discovered that tales were going the rounds, and that he had not yet been heard. He rolled his eye with an inward look, and Vance knew that he was searching for some smooth means of introducing one of his yarns.
Victory!
But here Elizabeth cut trenchantly into the heart of the conversation. She had seen and understood. She shot home half a dozen questions with the accuracy of a marksman, and beat up a drumfire of responses from the ladies which, for a time, rattled up and down the length of the table. The sheriff was biting his mustache thoughtfully.
It was only a momentary check, however. Just at the point where Vance began to despair of ever effecting his goal, the silence began again as lady after lady ran out of material for the nonce. And as the silence spread, the sheriff was visibly gathering steam.
Again Elizabeth cut in. But this time there was only a sporadic chattering in response. Coffee was steaming before them, Wu Chi's powerful, thick, aromatic coffee, which only he knew how to make. They were in a mood, now, to hear stories, that tableful of people. An expected ally came to the aid of Vance. It was Terence, who had been eating his heart out during the silly table talk of the past few minutes. Now he seized upon the first clear opening.
Sheriff Minter, I've heard a lot about the time you ran down Johnny Garden. But I've never had the straight of it. Won't you tell us how it happened?
Oh, protested the sheriff, "it don't amount to much."
Elizabeth cast one frantic glance at her brother, and strove to edge into the interval of silence with a question directed at Mr. Gainor. But he shelved that question; the whole table was obviously waiting for the great man to speak. A dozen appeals for the yarn poured in.
Well, said the sheriff, "if you folks are plumb set on it, I'll tell you just how it come about."
There followed a long story of how Johnny Garden had announced that he would ride down and shoot up the sheriff's own town, and then get away on the sheriff's own horse—and how he did it. And how the sheriff was laughed at heartily by the townsfolk, and how the whole mountain district joined in the laughter. And how he started out single-handed in the middle of winter to run down Johnny Garden, and struck through the mountains, was caught above the timberline in a terrific blizzard, kept on in peril of his life until he barely managed to reach the timber again on the other side of the ridge. How he descended upon the hiding-place of Johnny Garden, found Johnny gone, but his companions there, and made a bargain with them to let them go if they would consent to stand by and offer no resistance when he fought with Johnny on the latter's return. How they were as good as their word and how, when Johnny returned, they stood aside and let Johnny and the sheriff fight it out. How the sheriff beat Johnny to the draw, but was wounded in the left arm while Johnny fired a second shot as he lay dying on the floor of the lean-to. How the sheriff's wound was dressed by the companions of the dead Johnny, and how he was safely dismissed with honor, as between brave men, and how afterwards he hunted those same men down one by one.
It was quite a long story, but the audience followed it with a breathless interest.
Yes, sir, concluded the sheriff, as the applause of murmurs fell off. "And from yarns like that one you wouldn't never figure it that I was the son of a minister brung up plumb peaceful. Now, would you?"
And again, to the intense joy of Vance, it was Terry who brought the subject back, and this time the subject of all subjects which Elizabeth dreaded, and which Vance longed for.
Tell us how you came to branch out, Sheriff Minter?
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 which 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. 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. 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 shootin' 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 gun fight, 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.
"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 someplace 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 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 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. 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 a minute. He was a fine-looking boy, was Hollis. He gimme a look out of them fine black eyes of his which 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. What do you think he says to me? 'You go home to your ma, young man!'
" "That's what he said. '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,' says Jack Hollis to me. 'Are you as old as that, son? 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.
" "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 knowing 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, hellbent! 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 which 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.
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 or Jack Hollis, remember that his son is alive—and in good health!
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 schemes topple about his head.
He did even better than I expected, Elizabeth. Thank heaven for it!