by Max Brand
“By the eternal!” he scoffed. “This sounds like one of them duels of the old days. This was the way they used to talk!”
“Gentlemen,” said Gainor, raising his long-fingered hand, “it is my solemn duty to admonish you to make up your differences amicably.”
“Whatever that means,” sneered the sheriff. “But tell this young fool that’s trying to act like he couldn’t see me or hear me — tell him that I don’t carry no grudge ag’in’ him, that I’m sorry he’s Black Jack’s son, but that it’s something he can live down, maybe. And I’ll go so far as to say I’m sorry that I done all that talking right to his face. But farther than that I won’t go. And if all this is leading up to a gunplay, by God, gents, the minute a gun comes into my hand I shoot to kill, mark you that, and don’t you never forget it!”
Mr. Gainor had remained with his hand raised during this outbreak. Now he turned to Terry.
“You have heard?” he said. “I think the sheriff is going quite a way toward you, Mr. Colby.”
“Hollis!” gasped Terry. “Hollis is the name, sir!”
“I beg your pardon,” said Gainor. “Mr. Hollis it is! Gentlemen, I assure you that I feel for you both. It seems, however, to be one of those unfortunate affairs when the mind must stop its debate and physical action must take up its proper place. I lament the necessity, but I admit it, even though the law does not admit it. But there are unwritten laws, sirs, unwritten laws which I for one consider among the holies of holies.”
Palpably the old man was enjoying every minute of his own talk. It was not his first affair of this nature. He came out of an early and more courtly generation where men drank together in the evening by firelight and carved one another in the morning with glimmering bowie knives.
“You are both,” he protested, “dear to me. I esteem you both as men and as good citizens. And I have done my best to open the way for peaceful negotiations toward an understanding. It seems that I have failed. Very well, sirs. Then it must be battle. You are both armed? With revolvers?”
“Nacher’ly,” said the sheriff, and spat accurately at a blaze on the tree trunk beside him. He had grown very quiet.
“I am armed,” said Terry calmly, “with a revolver.”
“Very good.”
The hand of Gainor glided into his bosom and came forth bearing a white handkerchief. His right hand slid into his coat and came forth likewise — bearing a long revolver.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “the first man to disobey my directions I shall shoot down unquestioningly, like a dog. I give you my solemn word for it!”
And his eye informed them that he would enjoy the job.
He continued smoothly: “This contest shall accord with the only terms by which a duel with guns can be properly fought. You will stand back to back with your guns not displayed, but in your clothes. At my word you will start walking in the opposite directions until my command ‘Turn!’ and at this command you will wheel, draw your guns, and fire until one man falls — or both!”
He sent his revolver through a peculiar, twirling motion and shook back his long white hair.
“Ready, gentlemen, and God defend the right!”
CHAPTER 14
THE TALK WAS fitful in the living room. Elizabeth Cornish did her best to revive the happiness of her guests, but she herself was a prey to the same subdued excitement which showed in the faces of the others. A restraint had been taken away by the disappearance of both the storm centers of the dinner — the sheriff and Terry. Therefore it was possible to talk freely. And people talked. But not loudly. They were prone to gather in little familiar groups and discuss in a whisper how Terry had risen and spoken before them. Now and then someone, for the sake of politeness, strove to open a general theme of conversation, but it died away like a ripple on a placid pond.
“But what I can’t understand,” said Elizabeth to Vance when she was able to maneuver him to her side later on, “is why they seem to expect something more.”
Vance was very grave and looked tired. The realization that all his cunning, all his work, had been for nothing, tormented him. He had set his trap and baited it, and it had worked perfectly — save that the teeth of the trap had closed over thin air. At the denouement of the sheriff’s story there should have been the barking of two guns and a film of gunpowder smoke should have gone tangling to the ceiling. Instead there had been the formal little speech from Terry — and then quiet. Yet he had to mask and control his bitterness; he had to watch his tongue in talking with his sister.
“You see,” he said quietly, “they don’t understand. They can’t see how fine Terry is in having made no attempt to avenge the death of his father. I suppose a few of them think he’s a coward. I even heard a little talk to that effect!”
“Impossible!” cried Elizabeth.
She had not thought of this phase of the matter. All at once she hated the sheriff.
“It really is possible,” said Vance. “You see, it’s known that Terry never fights if he can avoid it. There never has been any real reason for fighting until today. But you know how gossip will put the most unrelated facts together, and make a complete story in some way.”
“I wish the sheriff were dead!” moaned Elizabeth. “Oh, Vance, if you only hadn’t gone near Craterville! If you only hadn’t distributed those wholesale invitations!”
It was almost too much for Vance — to be reproached after so much of the triumph was on her side — such a complete victory that she herself would never dream of the peril she and Terry had escaped. But he had to control his irritation. In fact, he saw his whole life ahead of him carefully schooled and controlled. He no longer had anything to sell. Elizabeth had made a mock of him and shown him that he was hollow, that he was living on her charity. He must all the days that she remained alive keep flattering her, trying to find a way to make himself a necessity to her. And after her death there would be a still harder task. Terry, who disliked him pointedly, would then be the master, and he would face the bitter necessity of cajoling the youngster whom he detested. A fine life, truly! An almost noble anguish of the spirit came upon Vance. He was urged to the very brink of the determination to thrust out into the world and make his own living. But he recoiled from that horrible idea in time.
“Yes,” he said, “that was the worst step I ever took. But I was trying to be wholehearted in the Western way, my dear, and show that I had entered into the spirit of things.”
“As a matter of fact,” sighed Elizabeth, “you nearly ruined Terry’s life — and mine!”
“Very near,” said the penitent Vance. “But then — you see how well it has turned out? Terry has taken the acid test, and now you can trust him under any—”
The words were literally blown off ragged at his lips. Two revolver shots exploded at them. No one gun could have fired them. And there was a terrible significance in the angry speed with which one had followed the other, blending, so that the echo from the lofty side of Sleep Mountain was but a single booming sound. In that clear air it was impossible to tell the direction of the noise.
Everyone in the room seemed to listen stupidly for a repetition of the noises. But there was no repetition.
“Vance,” whispered Elizabeth in such a tone that the coward dared not look into her face. “It’s happened!”
“What?” He knew, but he wanted the joy of hearing it from her own lips.
“It has happened,” she whispered in the same ghostly voice. “But which one?”
That was it. Who had fallen — Terry, or the sheriff? A long, heavy step crossed the little porch. Either man might walk like that.
The door was flung open. Terence Hollis stood before them.
“I think that I’ve killed the sheriff,” he said simply. “I’m going up to my room to put some things together; and I’ll go into town with any man who wishes to arrest me. Decide that between yourselves.”
With that he turned and walked away with a step as deliberately unhurried as his approach
had been. The manner of the boy was more terrible than the thing he had done. Twice he had shocked them on the same afternoon. And they were just beginning to realize that the shell of boyhood was being ripped away from Terence Colby. Terry Hollis, son of Black Jack, was being revealed to them.
The men received the news with utter bewilderment. The sheriff was as formidable in the opinion of the mountains as some Achilles. It was incredible that he should have fallen. And naturally a stern murmur rose: “Foul play!”
Since the first vigilante days there has been no sound in all the West so dreaded as that deep-throated murmur of angry, honest men. That murmur from half a dozen law-abiding citizens will put the fear of death in the hearts of a hundred outlaws. The rumble grew, spread: “Foul play.” And they began to look to one another, these men of action.
Only Elizabeth was silent. She rose to her feet, as tall as her brother, without an emotion on her face. And her brother would never forget her.
“It seems that you’ve won, Vance. It seems that blood will out, after all. The time is not quite up — and you win the bet!”
Vance shook his head as though in protest and struck his hand across his face. He dared not let her see the joy that contorted his features. Triumph here on the very verge of defeat! It misted his eyes. Joy gave wings to his thoughts. He was the master of the valley.
“But — you’ll think before you do anything, Elizabeth?”
“I’ve done my thinking already — twenty-four years of it. I’m going to do what I promised I’d do.”
“And that?”
“You’ll see and hear in time. What’s yonder?”
The men were rising, one after another, and bunching together. Before Vance could answer, there was a confusion in the hall, running feet here and there. They heard the hard, shrill voice of Wu Chi chattering directions and the guttural murmurs of his fellow servants as they answered. Someone ran out into the hall and came back to the huddling, stirring crowd in the living room.
“He’s not dead — but close to it. Maybe die any minute — maybe live through it!”
That was the report.
“We’ll get young Hollis and hold him to see how the sheriff comes out.”
“Aye, we’ll get him!”
All at once they boiled into action and the little crowd of men thrust for the big doors that led into the hall. They cast the doors back and came directly upon the tall, white-headed figure of Gainor.
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 starte
d 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 man-killer, 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.