by Max Brand
He was through the door, shut it quickly behind him, and then leaned against it to shut behind the danger that seemed to have snapped at his heels and barely missed him as he darted through to safety. And his heart, all the time, worked like a trip hammer. The violence of its actions shook him.
Ten seconds more, and he would be through the door, outside, and on his way. What should prevent him? He pulled the hat lower on his forehead and looked up and down. The house was quiet. The wind had fallen. Sudden calm was everywhere. And Happy stepped quickly to the front door of the house.
With his hand on the knob he paused, remembering that he had taken off his coat and left it in the room above. But what difference did the coat make?
He began to open the door, and yet he closed it again without stepping out. The coat made every difference, now that he came to think of it. As long as he was committing burglary, he should do it both boldly and smoothly. And to run out like a frightened child in his shirt sleeves—certainly that would bring a smile to the sinister eyes of Sandy Crisp.
On so small a thing the fate of Happy Jack was hanging. One step through the door and he was committed forever to a life of crime. But if he turned back—who could tell? He was not yet entirely across the borderline of the law, perhaps.
He went up the stairs more swiftly than he had come down. Now that the matter had been pushed so close to completion, he would brazen it through the last stages with a rush. In his room again, he caught up the coat and shoved his arms into the sleeves, leaving it unbuttoned, for in that manner he was given a freer play at his revolver butt.
Again he hesitated, in the act of stepping from the room. Would it not be better to leave something as a message?
He tore a flyleaf out of a book and leaned over it to scribble a note, but, while he searched for words, a gust of wind from the open window flicked the paper from under his fingers and tossed it to the floor. He scooped it up with an oath and found lying before him, printed on the leaf: The New Testament.
Happy Jack crunched the paper to a ball, while he drew his breath in a deep intake. That was the book of Christ, and this was Christ’s day! His hand, swinging back against the pocket of the coat, struck the package of greenbacks, and he jerked his arm wide again, cursing. Fate was against him.
Well, he would get clear of this house. It was beginning to weigh on him with a mortal burden, even the necessity of being under its roof. He turned to the door, in time to hear two light knocks upon it.
The sound stopped his heartbeat.
It was utter folly, of course. What had he to fear from any creature who announced his coming and did not strike him by surprise?
“Come in!” called Happy Jack.
There was no answer. Then he knew that his throat had refused to give body to the words he tried to speak. He went to the door and drew it open, and white against the darkness of the hall, he found himself looking down into the face of his pseudomother, Mrs. John Neilan.
VII
She was wrapped to the throat in a black dressing gown, and her white hair, quite disordered, floated like a mist about her face. But, at the sight of Happy Jack, her eyes brightened.
“You,” said Happy Jack. “You?”
He would rather have faced the guns of ten hard fighters at that moment than the pair of eyes that one glimpse of him had so brightened. Suddenly she was clinging to him.
“Johnny!” she was pleading. “You’re not going?”
“Me?” muttered Happy Jack. “Me? Why should I go?”
“Your hat and your coat … at this hour …”
“I couldn’t sleep. Being all sort of filled up with happiness about being home, I thought I’d step out and take a walk in the snow to get quieted down again. You see?”
She stroked his big arm gently, as though to make sure of him by the sense of touch, not trusting her eyes or ears.
“And that’s all?” she pleaded.
“Yes.”
She drew back at that, laughing a little. “I guess I’m a goose,” she said, “but I haven’t been able to sleep, either. Do you know what I’ve been doing? I’ve been standing at the window, half expecting, any minute, to see you slip out and go to the stable for your horse. You see, when you talked about the freedom of being your own master in the world, the idea stayed with me. And I didn’t see how you could be happy here with us. And then … then I came up to make sure of you.” She laughed again, but this time happily.
“And here I am,” said Happy Jack, wretched to the bottom of his heart as he studied the aged, kindly face. No matter what charges could be brought against Neilan, there was nothing to be said against his wife. And in the final accounting, how black would be the record of his trick upon this woman. “Here I am, and here to stay.”
He forced a smile to cover the lie and give it reality.
“And happy, dear?”
“Aye,” said Happy Jack. “I’m happy.”
“When you opened the door you fairly growled at me. ‘You’ you said, and in such a voice. As though I were an armed man, you know. And, Johnny, won’t you take off that hat and coat for just a minute? It makes me nervous to see you dressed to go.”
He obeyed without a word and turned to find her nodding and smiling.
“When you were a boy, dear,” she said, “you’d have growled at me for being so foolish.”
“Was I as bad as that?”
“Not bad. Oh, no. But just headstrong. I suppose every boy with the makings of a man in him is that way now and then. But you remember the checked suit I bought for your birthday, the one you burned because you were ashamed to wear it? That was one of the things I couldn’t understand in the old days. But, oh, Johnny, how much more I can understand now.”
“Did I do that?” muttered Happy Jack. “Did I burn the suit? The one you gave me for a birthday present?”
“But don’t tell me you’ve forgotten! It was your thirteenth birthday, you know. The last one …”
She stopped, and her eyes filled. And Happy Jack threw back his head and opened his shirt at the throat. He was stifling. What would go on in the brain and the soul of the woman when she learned of the hoax that had been played?
“I remember,” he said huskily.
“And now you’re angry because I’ve brought it up. I didn’t mean to …”
“Hush,” gasped Happy Jack. “Don’t talk like that. Angry? With you? Do you know where a gent like me ought to be when he’s talking to a lady like you? Down on his knees. Down on his knees, thinking what a mean, sneaking coyote he is.”
She ran to him and stopped him with a raised forefinger. “That isn’t a bit like my Johnny,” she said. “I … I’m afraid you’ve had hard times, or you’d never have learned to talk like this.”
“I was a brute of a hard-mouthed kid,” Happy Jack said. “All I knew was pulling on the bit. But I’ve learned different. It was kicked into me.”
“Who dared to strike you?”
“About a hundred, off and on,” Happy chuckled, “have taken a crack at me.”
“My dear, my dear,” murmured the mother. “But I have you safely home now.”
Happy Jack laughed. “I’ve growed big enough to … to take care of myself tolerable well,” he declared. “But …”
He stopped. She had uttered a little cry of horror and, reaching up, she pushed back his shirt and exposed his chest. A great ragged scar ran across it. And, drawing back the cloth a little more, she saw a broad spot, shining like silver.
“Johnny!” she gasped. “What … what made those marks on you?”
“Them?” Happy Jack said carelessly, but rebuttoning his shirt, nevertheless. “Well, you see, I’ve had little mixes now and then. And those are the marks.”
“But on your chest … weren’t you nearly killed?”
“Pretty near, a couple of times. But I
come through, all right.”
“And that’s the world you called your world of freedom. A world of death is what it is!”
“Maybe. But, when a gent’s knocking around, he’s got to take what comes his way.”
“Tell me this minute,” demanded the mother, “the names of the … the creatures who hurt you like that.”
“The long one,” said Happy thoughtfully, “with the fancy lacework about the edges, that scar come from a little run-in I had with a horse. Him and me had it out to see which was the better man. And he put me to bed. He got me off the saddle by running under a tree. And when I was down, he come along and done a dance on top of me.”
She covered her eyes, shuddering. “And they killed the horrible brute, I hope.”
“Killed him? Killed old Captain?” He started, almost in alarm, and then relaxed in a chuckle. “I should say not. Captain is the horse I ride, and there’s none better. He can turn around on a dime and jump like he has wings and dodge like a yearling calf. Besides, him and me are pals.”
Mrs. Neilan looked at him as though he stood at a great distance and she had to peer hard to make him out.
“I never could understand in the old days,” she said sadly, “and I guess I’ll have to give up trying to understand now. But I’ll never give up loving you, Johnny, and keeping you. And … and that long straight scar below the ragged one, dear?”
“It don’t make no pretty story,” said Happy Jack. “But I’ll tell you if it’ll make you feel any easier. I was playing poker one night in a strange town with some strange gents. Playing poker with strangers is like eating in a strange cook house. You got to keep watching your hand or you’ll starve. Anyway, there was a Canuck down from Canada with a disposition like a branding-fire on a hot day. He was so plumb nacheral mean that he cussed his tobacco while he was rolling a cigarette, and he cussed the cigarette after the tobacco was in it, and he cussed the match while he was lighting the cigarette, and then he wound up by cussing the floor he dropped the match on. You know that kind?
“Well, he was sure a fine gent to sit across the table from at poker. If you made a bet against him, he looked at you like he was picking out the place where he was going to shoot you. He had me plumb nervous with his little ways and his hitching at a knife one minute and playing with a gun the next. Anyway, to make a short yarn of it, I come over three kings and a brace of Jacks in his hand with three bullets and a pair of measly little deuces in mine. And I pretty near cleaned him out. Well, he sure went up in smoke. He was trembling all over, he was so mad. He passed a word or two at me, and then he reaches over the table with a grin and says he’ll shake hands to show they’re no hard feelings. And when he had my right hand, he pulls a knife with his left and slashes me. That’s the way that happened.”
“I hope they lynched him!” Mrs. Neilan gritted through her teeth, her eyes shining with anger.
“Nope, they took him to a hospital. I took care not to kill him, but I sure salted him away plenty. And the funny part was that it took all my winnings at that game to pay his hospital expenses.”
“You paid them?”
“Think I was going to leave him to charity? Nope. I have my fun and pay my bills for it. I guess that’s all you want to know about the scars?”
“I … I’m afraid to ask any more, Johnny. But there’s a round, white one, about the size of a twenty-five-cent piece …”
“That was at Morgan Run. They got me good that day.”
“Who are they?”
“I was doing a favor for a friend of mine that was a sheriff down south. Not that I play in with posses much. But a gang turned loose and did a couple of pretty bad jobs around the country. When they robbed a house, they burned it afterward to cover their tracks. And that ain’t a pretty game. So I rode in the sheriff’s party, and we took up with ’em at Morgan Run.”
“And then …?” she breathed.
“Then there was quite a little party, and they nicked me plenty. But we got ’em all.”
“I want to know.”
“You’ll never know from me,” he said gloomily. “That’s something I don’t talk about. It … it’s the only day in my life that I shot to kill. But the skunks got me cornered, and it was me or them. They didn’t leave no other choice, and I had to work quick. But here I am, and their trails are all a blank. It was a bad day.”
Mrs. John Neilan stared at him in profound wonder.
“And to think,” she whispered, “that once I held all of you in my arms … so easily … so easily … Johnny, are you happy to be back with us here?”
“Don’t I look it?”
“You have such big, fierce ways.” The mother sighed as she spoke. “Sometimes even your own mother is afraid of you.”
“Heaven rest her! Do you think she is?”
“What do you mean?” asked Mrs. Neilan, worried.
“Nothing. But you’re not really afraid?”
“I suppose not … really. Until you begin to talk about battles.”
“You asked me, you know.”
“I’ll have to keep on asking you until I know about every one, but they won’t be twice-told tales for me, Johnny. Only, I have to hear everything once. Because everything that you’ve done is a part of you. And everything that’s a part of you is a part of me. And I have to understand myself, don’t I?”
He chuckled at her reasoning.
“But will you prove you’re happy here?”
“Any way I can.”
“By making me a great gift?”
“It’s Christmas,” Happy Jack said, “and that’s the time for giving, I guess.”
“Then promise me, dear, that you’ll never again draw a weapon on any human being. Life is not worth being bought at the expense of another’s life. Will you promise? Besides, I’m going to wall you about with such fences of peace that you’ll never need a gun again. Will you promise, and make your old mother happy?”
“I promise,” said Happy Jack. After all, what did one more lie matter?
“Heaven bless you for it. Now I’ll go back to my bed and sleep … the first real sleep in twelve years, my dear.”
VIII
When she was gone, Happy Jack sank inertly into a chair. He remembered once having encountered a formidable enemy in a battle in which no shot was fired. But they merely passed and repassed each other half a dozen times in the little cattle town that day, and always when they were near there was a steady exchange of side glances and insulting smiles. That night the other had ridden suddenly out of town and, when word of his going was brought to Happy Jack by an attentive friend who knew the secret of the feud, Happy had collapsed on a chair as though from the exhaustion of a twenty-hour ride.
So it was now. Every nerve in his body seemed frayed by the strain of talking to Mrs. Neilan. And on his lips was still the tingle of the kiss with which she had left him. It was a living evidence of his lie. It was a brand for his guilt. Never again could he raise his head as an honest man and look his fellows in the face.
How it came about, Happy Jack was never to know. But it was as though a light were turned on in his brain and suddenly he was seeing everything clearly. He had raised his head and met, accidentally, the eyes of the boy pictured on the wall. And he knew as he examined those mischievous eyes that what he intended to do this night was exactly what the dead son would have done had he lived. Yes, it had been fortunate indeed that he had not lived, for surely he would have broken the heart of his mother and maddened his father. That episode of the burned birthday suit, and all it connoted of sullen pride and silly vanity, had not been thrown away upon Happy Jack. And, searching the face for signs of other weaknesses, he was not long in finding them. The eyes were too close together. The mouth was too loose, even for boyhood, and without promise of refinement. Such a daring deed of bravado as he had enacted on the day of his death in the log jam
, that face was certainly capable of promising. But for any tenderness, generosity, faith, there was no room.
He, Happy Jack, the man without a name, without a family, without a past save that of his own making, was beyond all shadow of question the better man of the two. This stealing in the night, this shameful imposture upon two old people, would have been in the line of the capabilities of the dead man. He, Happy Jack, was above it. He took from his pocket the thick bundle of bills. And he ran his fingers over them. Every one of them represented the wages that might be earned by a month or more of hard labor. Here, in his grip, was the cash valuation of two or three lifetimes of work, for himself and that widow and her three children. All in the grip of his one hand!
He flung it from him to the top of the bureau. He tore out another flyleaf, this time taking a little more care in the selection of the book to be mutilated, and he scrawled across the paper:
This is why I came, and the reason I’m leaving it behind me is because of I don’t know what. But I’m not Johnny. You can lay to that. And I’m a pile sorry for having got up a lot of hopes that are not true.
Yours to the end of time,
Happy Jack
And when the thing was done, he drew a great breath of relief. After all, it was a marvelously simple thing to do. Once he set his hand to it. It seemed to him that a hand fell from his shoulder, the invisible hand of Sandy Crisp which had impelled him first toward this cruel and wicked crime, and which had kept urging him on.
He remembered another thing out of the evening, something which at the time he had taken lightly enough, but which now loomed larger and larger in importance. It was his promise to Mrs. Neilan that he would never again draw his gun upon a human being. Great beads of sweat stood out on his forehead as he thought of it. And that he, Happy Jack, of all people should have made such a promise. It was madness. It was worse—it was suicide! A hundred men would welcome an opportunity to take him at a disadvantage and shoot to kill. Happy Jack without a gun? They would come flocking at the news like buzzards gathering above a dying bull.