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

little ironies of fate that he

should have picked up the very man who was to disinherit him some twenty-four years later.

 

He carried no grudge against Elizabeth, but he certainly retained no

tenderness. Hereafter he would act his part as well as he could to

extract the last possible penny out of her. And in the meantime he must

concentrate on tripping up Terence Colby, alias Hollis.

 

Vance saw nothing particularly vicious in this. He had been idle so long

that he rejoiced in a work which was within his mental range. It included

scheming, working always behind the scenes, pulling strings to make

others jump. And if he could trip Terry and actually make him shoot a man

on or before that birthday, he had no doubt that his sister would

actually throw the boy out of her house and out of her life. A woman who

could give twenty-four years to a theory would be capable of grim things

when the theory went wrong.

 

It was early evening when he climbed off the train at Garrison City. He

had not visited the place since that cattle-buying trip of twenty-four

years ago that brought the son of Black Jack into the affairs of the

Cornish family. Garrison City had become a city. There were two solid

blocks of brick buildings next to the station, a network of paved

streets, and no less than three hotels. It was so new to the eye and so

obviously full of the “booster” spirit that he was appalled at the idea

of prying through this modern shell and getting back to the heart and the

memory of the old days of the town.

 

At the restaurant he forced himself upon a grave-looking gentleman across

the table. He found that the solemn-faced man was a travelling drummer.

The venerable loafer in front of the blacksmith’s shop was feeble-minded,

and merely gaped at the name of Black Jack. The proprietor of the hotel

shook his head with positive antagonism.

 

“Of course, Garrison City has its past,” he admitted, “but we are living

it down, and have succeeded pretty well. I think I’ve heard of a ruffian

of the last generation named Jack Hollis; but I don’t know anything, and

I don’t care to know anything, about him. But if you’re interested in

Garrison City, I’d like to show you a little plot of ground in a place

that is going to be the center of the—”

 

Vance Cornish made his mind a blank, let the smooth current of words slip

off his memory as from an oiled surface, and gave up Garrison City as a

hopeless job. Nevertheless, it was the hotel proprietor who dropped a

valuable hint.

 

“If you’re interested in the early legends, why don’t you go to the State

Capitol? They have every magazine and every book that so much as mentions

any place in the state.” So Vance Cornish went to the capitol and entered

the library. It was a sweaty task and a most discouraging one. The name

“Black Jack” revealed nothing; and the name of Hollis was an equal blank,

so far as the indices were concerned. He was preserved in legend only,

and Vance Cornish could make no vital use of legend. He wanted something

in cold print.

 

So he began an exhaustive search. He went through volume after volume,

but though he came upon mention of Black Jack, he never reached the

account of an eyewitness of any of those stirring holdups or train

robberies.

 

And then he began on the old files of magazines. And still nothing. He

was about to give up with four days of patient labor wasted when he

struck gold in the desert—the very mine of information which he wanted.

 

“How I Painted Black Jack,” by Lawrence Montgomery.

 

There was the photograph of the painter, to begin with—a man who had

discovered the beauty of the deserts of the Southwest. But there was

more—much more. It told how, in his wandering across the desert, he had

hunted for something more than raw-colored sands and purple mesas

blooming in the distance.

 

He had searched for a human being to fit into the picture and give the

softening touch of life. But he never found the face for which he had

been looking. And then luck came and tapped him on the shoulder. A lone

rider came out of the dusk and the desert and loomed beside his campfire.

The moment the firelight flushed on the face of the man, he knew this was

the face for which he had been searching. He told how they fried bacon

and ate it together; he told of the soft voice and the winning smile of

the rider; he told of his eyes, unspeakably soft and unspeakably bold,

and the agile, nervous hands, forever shifting and moving in the

firelight.

 

The next morning he had asked his visitor to sit for a picture, and his

request had been granted. All day he labored at the canvas, and by night

the work was far enough along for him to dismiss his visitor. So the

stranger asked for a small brush with black paint on it, and in the

corner of the canvas drew in the words “Yours, Black Jack.” Then he rode

into the night.

 

Black Jack! Lawrence Montgomery had made up his pack and struck straight

back for the nearest town. There he asked for tidings of a certain Black

Jack, and there he got what he wanted in heaps. Everyone knew Black

Jack—too well! There followed a brief summary of the history of the

desperado and his countless crimes, unspeakable tales of cunning and

courage and merciless vengeance taken.

 

Vance Cornish turned the last page of the article, and there was the

reproduction of the painting. He held his breath when he saw it. The

outlaw sat on his horse with his head raised and turned, and it was the

very replica of Terence Colby as the boy had waved to them from the back

of Le Sangre. More than a family, sketchy resemblance—far more.

 

There was the same large, dark eye; the same smile, half proud and half

joyous; the same imperious lift of the head; the same bold carving of the

features. There were differences, to be sure. The nose of Black Jack had

been more cruelly arched, for instance, and his cheekbones were higher

and more pronounced. But in spite of the dissimilarities the resemblance

was more than striking. It might have stood for an actual portrait of

Terence Colby masquerading in long hair.

 

When the full meaning of this photograph had sunk into his mind, Vance

Cornish closed his eyes. “Eureka!” he whispered to himself.

 

There was something more to be done. But it was very simple. It merely

consisted in covertly cutting out the pages of the article in question.

Then, carefully, for fear of loss, he jotted down the name and date of

the magazine, folded his stolen pages, and fitted them snugly into his

breast pocket. That night he ate his first hearty dinner in four days.