by Max Brand
“When you took it,” he corrected. “I disclaim all share in the idea.”
“Thank you,” she answered proudly. “At any rate, I took the boy and called him Terence Colby.”
“Why that name,” muttered Vance, “I never could understand.”
“Haven’t I told you? No, and I hardly know whether to trust even you with the secret, Vance. But you remember we argued about it, and you said that blood would out; that the boy would turn out wrong; that before he was twenty-five he would have shot a man?”
“I believe the talk ran like that.”
“Well, Vance, I started out with a theory; but the moment I had that baby in my arms, it became a matter of theory, plus, and chiefly plus. I kept remembering what you had said, and I was afraid. That was why I worked up the Colby idea.”
“That’s easy to see.”
“It wasn’t so easy to do. But I heard of the last of an old Virginia family who had died of consumption in Arizona. I traced his family. He was the last of it. Then it was easy to arrange a little story: Terence Colby had married a girl in Arizona, died shortly after; the girl died also, and I took the baby. Nobody can disprove what I say. There’s not a living soul who knows that Terence is the son of Jack Hollis—except you and me.”
“How about the woman I got the baby from?”
“I bought her silence until fifteen years ago. Then she died, and now Terry is convinced that he is the last representative of the Colby family.”
She laughed with excitement and beckoned him out of the room and into another—Terry’s room, farther down the hall. She pointed to a large photograph of a solemn-faced man on the wall. “You see that?”
“Who is it?”
“I got it when I took Terry to Virginia last winter—to see the old family estate and go over the ground of the historic Colbys.”
She laughed again happily.
“Terry was wild with enthusiasm. He read everything he could lay his hands on about the Colbys. Discovered the year they landed in Virginia; how they fought in the Revolution; how they fought and died in the Civil War. Oh, he knows every landmark in the history of ‘his’ family. Of course, I encouraged him.”
“I know,” chuckled Vance. “Whenever he gets in a pinch, I’ve heard you say: ‘Terry, what should a Colby do?’”
“And,” cut in Elizabeth, “you must admit that it has worked. There isn’t a prouder, gentler, cleaner-minded boy in the world than Terry. Not blood. It’s the blood of Jack Hollis. But it’s what he thinks himself to be that counts. And now, Vance, admit that your theory is exploded.”
He shook his head.
“Terry will do well enough. But wait till the pinch comes. You don’t know how he’ll turn out when the rub comes. Then blood will tell!”
She shrugged her shoulders angrily.
“You’re simply being perverse now, Vance. At any rate, that picture is one of Terry’s old ‘ancestors,’ Colonel Vincent Colby, of prewar days. Terry has discovered family resemblances, of course—same black hair, same black eyes, and a great many other things.”
“But suppose he should ever learn the truth?” murmured Vance.
She caught her breath.
“That would be ruinous, of course. But he’ll never learn. Only you and I know.”
“A very hard blow, eh,” said Vance, “if he were robbed of the Colby illusion and had Black Jack put in its place as a cold fact? But of course we’ll never tell him.”
Her color was never high. Now it became gray. Only her eyes remained burning, vivid, young, blazing out through the mask of age.
“Remember you said his blood would tell before he was twenty-five; that the blood of Black Jack would come to the surface; that he would have shot a man?”
“Still harping on that, Elizabeth? What if he does?”
“I’d disown him, throw him out penniless on the world, never see him again.”
“You’re a Spartan,” said her brother in awe, as he looked on that thin, stern face. “Terry is your theory. If he disappoints you, he’ll be simply a theory gone wrong. You’ll cut him out of your life as if he were an algebraic equation and never think of him again.”
“But he’s not going wrong, Vance. Because, in ten days, he’ll be twenty-five! And that’s what all these changes mean. The moment it grows dark on the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, I’m going to take him into my father’s room and turn it over to him.”
He had listened to her patiently, a little wearied by her unusual flow of words. Now he came out of his apathy with a jerk. He laid his hand on Elizabeth’s shoulder and turned her so that the light shone full in her face. Then he studied her.
“What do you mean by that, Elizabeth?”
“Vance,” she said steadily, but with a touch of pity in her voice, “I have waited for a score of years, hoping that you’d settle down and try to do a man’s work either here or somewhere else. You haven’t done it. Yesterday Mr. Cornwall came here to draw up my will. By that will I leave you an annuity, Vance, that will take care of you in comfort; but I leave everything else to Terry Colby. That’s why I’ve changed the room. The moment it grows dark ten days from today, I’m going to take Terry by the hand and lead him into the room and into the position of my father!”
The mask of youth which was Vance Cornish crumbled and fell away. A new man looked down at her. The firm flesh of his face became loose. His whole body was flabby. She had the feeling that if she pushed against his chest with the weight of her arm, he would topple to the floor. That weakness gradually passed. A peculiar strength of purpose grew in its place.
“Of course, this is a very shrewd game, Elizabeth. You want to wake me up. You’re using the spur to make me work. I don’t blame you for using the bluff, even if it’s a rather cruel one. But, of course, it’s impossible for you to be serious in what you say.”
“Why impossible, Vance?”
“Because you know that I’m the last male representative of our family. Because you know my father would turn in his grave if he knew that an interloper, a foundling, the child of a murderer, a vagabond, had been made the heir to his estate. But you aren’t serious, Elizabeth; I understand.”
He swallowed his pride, for panic grew in him in proportion to the length of time she maintained her silence.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t blame you for giving me a scare, my dear sister. I have been a shameless loafer. I’m going to reform and lift the burden of business off your shoulders—let you rest the remainder of your life.”
It was the worst thing he could have said. He realized it the moment he had spoken. This forced, cowardly surrender was worse than brazen defiance, and he saw her lip curl. An idler is apt to be like a sullen child, except that in a grown man the child’s sulky spite becomes a dark malice, all-embracing. For the very reason that Vance knew he was receiving what he deserved, and that this was the just reward for his thriftless years of idleness, he began to hate Elizabeth with a cold, quiet hatred. There is something stimulating about any great passion. Now Vance felt his nerves soothed and calmed. His self-possession returned with a rush. He was suddenly able to smile into her face.
“After all,” he said, “you’re absolutely right. I’ve been a failure, Elizabeth—a rank, disheartening failure. You’d be foolish to trust the result of your life labors in my hands—entirely foolish. I admit that it’s a shrewd blow to see the estate go to—Terry.”
He found it oddly difficult to name the boy.
“But why not? Why not Terry? He’s a clean youngster, and he may turn out very well—in spite of his blood. I hope so. The Lord knows you’ve given him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck!”
He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over it.
“There’s the old Vance talking,” she said warmly, a mist across her eyes. “I almost thought that part of you had died.”
He writhed inwardly. “By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out of
nothing, everything poured into his hands—and now within ten days of his goal! Rather exciting, isn’t it? Suppose he should stumble at the very threshold of his success? Eh?”
He pressed the point with singular insistence.
“Doesn’t it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might fall—that he might do what I prophesied so long ago—shoot a man before he’s twenty-five?”
She shrugged the supposition calmly away.
“My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he fell, after the schooling I’ve given him, I’d throw him out of my life— forever.”
He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he shrugged in turn. “Tush! Of course, that’s impossible. Let’s go down.”
CHAPTER 4
When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence Colby coming up the terrace from the river road on Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but would try to be on the alert. One ear flagged warily back. He went slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse. Yet, when the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a creature of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave to the side-spring with supple grace and then sent the stallion on up the hill.
Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair was blowing about his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has done a hard day’s work and is ready to rest. He came close to the veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly, curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.
“The killer is no longer a killer,” laughed Terry. “Look him over, Uncle Vance. A beauty, eh?”
Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.
“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”
“Not much more. A leggy horse can’t stand mountain work—or any other work, for that matter, except a ride in the park.”
“I suppose you’re right. He’s a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye, but I see that you’ve beaten him.”
“Beaten him?” He shook his head. “We reached a gentleman’s agreement. As long as I wear spurs, he’ll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise he’ll keep on fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop tormenting him, he’ll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre. Eh, boy?”
He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them. The horse stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt came in his eyes.
“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.
But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket.
The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them. Just as he turned, the mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture—a man with long black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping through a dusty street with shots barking behind him. It came suddenly as a revelation, and left him downheaded with the thought.
“What is it, Vance?” asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.
“Nothing.” Then he added abruptly: “I’m going for a jaunt for a few days, Elizabeth.”
She grew gloomy.
“Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?”
“Not at all. I’m going to be back here in ten days and drink Terry’s long life and happiness across the birthday dinner table.”
He marvelled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her face.
“You noticed that—his gentleman’s agreement with Le Sangre? I’ve made him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight—men argue and agree.”
“I’ve noticed that he never has trouble with the cow-punchers.”
“They’ve seen him box,” chuckled Elizabeth. “Besides, Terry isn’t the sort that troublemakers like to pick on. He has an ugly look when he’s angry.”
“H’m,” murmured Vance. “I’ve noticed that. But as long as he keeps to his fists, he’ll do no harm. But what is the reason for surrounding him with guns, Elizabeth?”
“A very good reason. He loves them, you know. Anything from a shotgun to a derringer is a source of joy to Terence. And not a day goes by that he doesn’t handle them.”
“Certainly the effect of blood, eh?” suggested Vance.
She glanced sharply at him.
“You’re determined to be disagreeable today, Vance. As a matter of fact, I’ve convinced him that for the very reason he is so accurate with a gun he must never enter a gun fight. The advantage would be too much on his side against any ordinary man. That appeals to Terry’s sense of fair play. No, he’s absolutely safe, no matter how you look at it.”
“No doubt.”
He looked away from her and over the valley. The day had worn into the late afternoon. Bear Creek ran dull and dark in the shadow, and Mount Discovery was robed in blue to the very edge of its shining crown of snow. In this dimmer, richer light the Cornish ranch had never seemed so desirable to Vance. It was not a ranch; it was a little kingdom. And Vance was the dispossessed heir.
He knew that he was being watched, however, and all that evening he was at his best. At the dinner table he guided the talk so that Terence Colby was the lion of the conversation. Afterward, when he was packing his things in his room for his journey of the next day, he was careful to sing at the top of his voice. He reaped a reward for this cautious acting, for the next morning, when he climbed into the buckboard that was to take him down the Blue Mountain road and over to the railroad, his sister came down the steps and stood beside the wagon.
“You will come back for the birthday party, Vance?” she pleaded.
“You want me to?”
“You were with me when I got Terry. In fact, you got him for me. And I want you to be here when he steps into his own.”
In this he found enough to keep him thoughtful all the way to the railroad while the buckskins grunted up the grade and then spun away down the long slope beyond. It was one of those 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 Jac
k. 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.