Black Jack - Max Brand (top 10 most read books in the world TXT) 📗

CHAPTER 15

Gainor’s dignity split the force of their rush. They recoiled as water

strikes on a rock and divides into two meager swirls. And when one or two

went past him on either side, he recalled them.

 

“Boys, there seems to be a little game on hand. What is it?”

 

Something repelling, coldly inquiring in his attitude and in his voice.

They would have gone on if they could, but they could not. He held them

with a force of knowledge of things that they did not know. They were

remembering that this man had gone out with the sheriff to meet,

apparently, his death. And yet Gainor, a well-tried friend of the

sheriff, seemed unexcited. They had to answer his question, and how could

they lie when he saw them rushing through a door with revolvers coming to

brown, skillful hands? It was someone from the rear who made the

confession.

 

“We’re going to get young Black Jack!”

 

That was it. The speech came out like the crack of a gun, clearing the

atmosphere. It told every man exactly what was in his own mind, felt but

not confessed. They had no grudge against Terry, really. But they were

determined to hang the son of Black Jack. Had it been a lesser deed, they

might have let him go. But his victim was too distinguished in their

society. He had struck down Joe Minter; the ghost of the great Black Jack

himself seemed to have stalked out among them.

 

“You’re going to get young Terry Hollis?” interpreted Gainor, and his

voice rose and rang over them. Those who had slipped past him on either

side came back and faced him. In the distance Elizabeth had not stirred.

Vance kept watching her face. It was cold as ice, unreadable. He could

not believe that she was allowing this lynching party to organize under

her own roof—a lynching party aimed at Terence. It began to grow in him

that he had gained a greater victory than he imagined.

 

“If you aim at Terry,” went on Gainor, his voice even louder, “you’ll

have to aim at me, too. There’s going to be no lynching bee, my friends!”

 

The women had crowded back in the room. They made a little bank of stir

and murmur around Elizabeth.

 

“Gentlemen,” said Gainor, shaking his white hair back again in his

imposing way, “there has been no murder. The sheriff is not going to die.

There has been a disagreement between two men of honor. The sheriff is

now badly wounded. I think that is all. Does anybody want to ask

questions about what has happened?”

 

There was a bustle in the group of men. They were putting

away the weapons, not quite sure what they could do next.

 

“I am going to tell you exactly what has happened,” said Gainor. “You

heard the unfortunate things that passed at the table today. What the

sheriff said was not said as an insult; but under the circumstances it

became necessary for Terence Hollis to resent what he had heard. As a man

of honor he could not do otherwise. You all agree with me in that?”

 

They grunted a grudging assent. There were ways and ways of looking at

such things. The way of Gainor was a generation old. But there was

something so imposing about the old fellow, something which breathed the

very spirit of honor and fair play, that they could not argue the point.

 

“Accordingly Mr. Hollis sent for the sheriff. Not to bring him outdoors

and shoot him down in a sudden gunplay, nor to take advantage of him

through a surprise—as a good many men would have been tempted to do, my

friends, for the sheriff has a wide reputation as a handler of guns of

all sorts. No, sir, he sent for me also, and he told us frankly that the

bad blood between him and the sheriff must be spent. You understand? By

the Lord, my friends, I admired the fine spirit of the lad. He expected

to be shot rather than to drop the sheriff. I could tell that by his

expression. But his eye did not falter. It carried me back to the old

days—to old days, sirs!”

 

There was not a murmur in the entire room. The eye of Elizabeth Cornish

was fire. Whether with anger or pride, Vance could not tell. But he began

to worry.

 

“We went over to the group of silver spruce near the house. I gave them

the directions. They came and stood together, back to back, with their

revolvers not drawn. They began to walk away in opposite directions at my

command.

 

“When I called ‘Turn,’ they wheeled. My gun was ready to shoot down the

first man guilty of foul play—but there was no attempt to turn too soon,

before the signal. They whirled, snatching out their guns—and the

revolver of the sheriff hung in his clothes!”

 

A groan from the little crowd.

 

“Although, upon my word,” said Gainor, “I do not think that the sheriff

could have possibly brought out his gun as swiftly as Terence Hollis did.

His whirl was like the spin of a top, or the snap of a whiplash, and as

he snapped about, the revolver was in his hand, not raised to draw a

bead, but at his hip. The sheriff set his teeth—but Terry did not fire!”

 

A bewildered murmur from the crowd.

 

“No, my friends,” cried Gainor, his voice quivering, “he did not fire. He

dropped the muzzle of his gun—and waited. By heaven, my heart went out

to him. It was magnificent.”

 

The thin, strong hand of Elizabeth closed on the arm of Vance. “That was

a Colby who did that!” she whispered.

 

“The sheriff gritted his teeth,” went on Gainor, “and tore out his gun.

All this pause had been such a space as is needed for an eyelash to

flicker twice. Out shot the sheriff’s Colt. And then, and not until then,

did the muzzle of Terry’s revolver jerk up. Even after that delay he beat

the sheriff to the trigger. The two shots came almost together, but the

sheriff was already falling when he pulled his trigger, and his aim was

wild.

 

“He dropped on one side, the revolver flying out of his hand. I started

forward, and then I stopped. By heaven, the sheriff had stretched out his

arm and picked up his gun again. He was not through fighting.

 

“A bulldog spirit, you say? Yes! And what could I do? It was the

sheriff’s right to keep on fighting as long as he wished. And it was the

right of Terence to shoot the man full of holes the minute his hand

touched the revolver again.

 

“I could only stand still. I saw the sheriff raise his revolver. It was

an effort of agony. But he was still trying to kill. And I nerved myself

and waited for the explosion of the gun of Terence. I say I nerved myself

for that shock, but the gun did not explode. I looked at him in wonder.

My friends, he was putting up his gun and quietly looking the sheriff in

the eye!

 

“At that I shouted to him, I don’t know what. I shouted to the sheriff

not to fire. Too late. The muzzle of the gun was already tilting up, the

barrel was straightening. And then the gun fell from Minter’s hand and he

dropped on his side. His strength had failed him at the last moment.

 

“But I say, sirs, that what Terence Hollis did was the finest thing I

have ever seen in my life, and I have seen fine things done by gentlemen

before. There may be unpleasant associations with the name of Terry’s

father. I, for one, shall never carry over those associations to the son.

Never! He has my hand, my respect, my esteem in every detail. He is a

gentleman, my friends! There is nothing for us to do. If the sheriff is

unfortunate and the wound should prove fatal, Terence will give himself

up to the law. If he lives, he will be the first to tell you to keep your

hands off the boy!”

 

He ended in a little silence. But there was no appreciative burst of

applause from those who heard him. The fine courage of Terence was, to

them, merely the iron nerve of the mankiller, the keen eye and the

judicious mind which knew that the sheriff would collapse before he fired

his second shot. And his courtesy before the first shot was simply the

surety of the man who knew that no matter what advantage he gave to his

enemy, his own speed of hand would more than make up for it.

 

Gainor, reading their minds, paid no more heed to them. He went straight

across the room and took the hand of Elizabeth.

 

“Dear Miss Cornish,” he said so that all could hear, “I congratulate you

for the man you have given us in Terence Hollis.”

 

Vance, watching, saw the tears of pleasure brighten the eyes of his

sister.

 

“You are very kind,” she said. “But now I must see Sheriff Minter and be

sure that everything is done for him.”

 

It seemed that the party took this as a signal for dismissal. As she went

across the room, there were a dozen hasty adieus, and soon the guests

were streaming towards the doors.

 

Vance and Elizabeth and Gainor went to the sheriff. He had been installed

in a guest room. His eyes were closed, his arms outstretched. A thick,

telltale bandage was wrapped about his breast. And Wu Chi, skillful in

such matters from a long experience,