Son of an Outlaw

by Max Brand

  “Turn around!” roared Pollard.

  His daughter turned slowly and faced him. Not white-faced with fear, but to the unutterable astonishment of Terry she was quietly looking her father up and down. Pollard sprang to his feet and struck the table so that it quivered through all its massive length under the blow.

  “Are you tryin’ to shame me before a stranger?” thundered the big man. “Is that the scheme?”

  She flicked Terry Hollis with a glance. “I think he’ll understand and make allowances.”

  It brought the heavy fist smashing on the table again. And an ugly feeling rose in Hollis that the big fellow might put hands on his daughter.

  “And what d’you mean by that? What in hell d’you mean by that?”

  In place of wincing she in turn came to her feet, gracefully. There had been such an easy dignity about her sitting at the piano that she had seemed tall to Terry. Now that she stood up, he was surprised to see that she was not a shade more than average height, beautifully and strongly made.

  “You’ve gone about far enough with your little joke,” said the girl, and her voice was low, but with an edge of vibrancy that went through and through Hollis. “And you’re going to stop pronto.”

  There was a flash of teeth as she spoke, and a quiver through her body as she grew tense. Terry had never seen such passion, such unreasoning, wild passion, as that which had leaped on the girl. It seemed to change her with another personality. For the moment she was capable of anything. And though her face was not contorted, danger spoke from every line of it. He made himself tense, prepared for a similar outbreak from the father, but the latter relaxed as suddenly as his daughter had become furious.

  “There you go,” he complained with a sort of heavy whine. “Always flying off the handle. Always turning into a wildcat when I try to reason with you.”

  “Reason!” cried the girl. “Reason!”

  Joe Pollard grew downcast under her scorn. And Terry, sensing that the crisis of the argument had passed, watched the other four men in the room. They had not paid the slightest attention to the debate during its later phases. And two of them—Slim and huge Phil Marvin—had begun to roll dice on a folded blanket, the little ivories winking in the light rapidly until they came to a rest at the farther end of the cloth. Possibly this family strife was a common thing in the Pollard household. At any rate, the father now passed off from accusation to abrupt apology.

  “You always get me riled at the end of the day, Kate. Damn it! Can’t you never bear with a gent?”

  There was such a softening in her that Terry could think of only one thing—a pet dog crossed in his will and grown ferocious and suddenly appeased with a bone. The tigerish alertness passed from Kate Pollard. She was filled all at once with a winning gentleness, and, crossing to her father, took his heavy hands in hers.

  “Dear Dad,” she murmured. “Dear Dad.” She drew him down into his chair and took the seat beside him. Plainly she did not even remember Terry, across the table. “I reckon I’m a bad one,” she accused herself. “I try to get over tantrums . . . but . . . I can’t help it. Something . . . just sort of grabs me by the throat when I get mad. I . . . I see red.”

  “Hush up, honey,” said the big man, tenderly, and he ran his thick fingers over her hair. “You ain’t so bad. And all that’s bad in you comes out of me. You forget and I’ll forget.” He waved across the table. “Terry’ll be thinking we’re a bunch of wild Indians the way we been actin’.”

  “Oh!” Plainly she was recalled to the presence of the stranger for the first time in many minutes, and, dropping her chin in her hand, she stared across the table and deliberately studied the new arrival.

  He found it difficult to meet her glance. The Lord had endowed Terry Hollis with a remarkable share of good looks and it was not the first time that he had been investigated by the eyes of a woman. Not that he prided himself on it. Indeed, he found it decidedly a nuisance. Horses and men and the ways of men were alone interesting to him. But in all his life he had never been subjected to an examination as minute, as insolently frank as this one. He felt himself taken part and parcel, examined in detail as to forehead, chin, and eyes and heft of shoulders, and then weighed altogether. In self-defense he fought back, as who will not? And he looked boldly back at her, making himself examine her in equal detail. An older man might have warned Terry that this is a dangerous thing to do. But Terry had no such advice at hand.

  Seeing her so close, he was aware of a marvelously delicate olive-tanned skin with delightful tints of rose just beneath the surface. He found himself saying inwardly: It’s easy to look at her. It’s very easy. By the Lord, she’s beautiful. Others would have seen that long before. Terry did not arrive at the important conclusion until, examining her eyes just as she was examining his, he discovered that what he had taken to be green, might be, after all, a mysterious shade of blue. He had seen it before in the sunset sky, close to the horizon—an elusive color that one could not name. Being so close to her, also, he made other important discoveries. Just what they were he could not put into words. But it made him remember riding into the freshness of an early dawn and being very glad, for no reason, that he was alive in the mountains. There was the same tingle up the spine, something cold and electric.

  As for the girl, it seemed that she was not quite sure in her judgment. For now she turned to her father with a faint frown of wonder. And again it seemed to Terry that Joe Pollard made an imperceptible sign, such as he had made to the four men when he introduced Terry.

  But now he broke into breezy talk. “Met Terry down in Pedro’s. . . .”

  The girl seemed to have dismissed Terry from her mind already, for she broke in: “Crooked game he’s running, isn’t it?”

  “I thought so till today. Then I seen Terry, here, trim Pedro for a flat twenty thousand.”

  “Oh?” The girl nodded. Again her gaze reverted leisurely to the stranger and with a not unflattering interest. It seemed that in her estimation one acid test had been applied to him, and that he had not been found wanting.

  “And then I seen him lose most of it back again. Roulette.”

  She nodded, keeping her eyes on Terry, and the boy found himself desiring mightily to discover just what was going on behind the changing blue of her eyes. He was shocked when he discovered. It came like the break of high dawn in the mountains of the Big Bend. Suddenly she had smiled, openly, frankly. “Hard luck, partner.”

  A little shivering sense of pleasure ran through him. He knew that he had been admitted by her—accepted.

  Her father had thrown up his head. “Someone come in the back way. Oregon, go find out.”

  Dark-eyed Oregon Charlie slipped up and through the door. Everyone in the room waited, a little tense, with lifted heads. Slim was studying the last throw that Phil Marvin had made. Terry could not but wonder what significance that back way had. Presently Oregon reappeared.

  “Pete’s come.”

  “The hell!”

  “Went upstairs.”

  “Wants to be alone,” interrupted the girl. “He’ll come down and talk when he feels like it. That’s Pete’s way.”

  “Watching us, maybe,” growled Joe Pollard with a shade of uneasiness still. “Damned funny gent, Pete is. Watches a man like a cat . . . watches a gopher hole all day, maybe. And maybe the gent he watches is a friend he’s known ten years. Well . . . let Pete go. They ain’t no explaining him.”

  Through the last part of his talk, and through the heaviness of his voice, cut another tone, lighter, sharper, venomous: “Phil, you gummed them dice that last time.”

  Joe Pollard froze in place; the eyes of the girl widened. Terry, looking across the room, saw Phil Marvin scoop up the dice and start to his feet.

  “You lie, Slim!”

  Instinctively Terry slipped his hand onto his gun. It was what Phil Marvin had done as a matter of fact. He stood swelling and glowering, staring down at Slim Dugan. Slim had not risen. His thin, lithe body
was coiled, and he reminded Terry in ugly fashion of a snake ready to strike. His hand was not near his gun. It was the calm courage and self-confidence of a man who is sure of himself and of his enemy. Terry had heard of it before, but never seen it. As for Phil, it was plain that he was ill at ease in spite of his bulk and the advantage of his position. He was ready to fight. But he was not at all pleased with the prospect.

  Terry again glanced at the witnesses. Everyone of them was alert, but there was none of that fear that comes in the faces of ordinary men when strife between men is at hand. And suddenly Terry knew that every one of the five men in the room was familiar with danger, every one of them a past master of gunfighting!

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The uneasy wait continued for a moment or more. The whisper of Joe Pollard to his daughter barely reached the ear of Terry.

  “Cut in between ’em, girl. You can handle ’em. I can’t.”

  She responded instantly, before Terry recovered from his shock of surprise.

  “Slim, keep away from your gun!” She spoke as she whirled from her chair to her feet. It was strange to see her direct all her attention to Slim, when Phil Marvin seemed the one about to draw.

  “I ain’t even nearin’ my gun,” asserted Slim truthfully. “It’s Phil that’s got a stranglehold on his.”

  “You’re waiting for him to draw,” said the girl calmly enough. “I know you, Slim. Phil, don’t be a fool. Drop your hand away from that gat.”

  He hesitated; she stepped directly between him and his enemy of the moment and jerked the gun from its holster. Then she faced Slim. Obviously Phil was not displeased to have the matter taken out of his hands; obviously Slim was not so pleased. He looked coldly up at the girl.

  “This is between him and me,” he protested. “I don’t need none of your help, Kate.”

  “Don’t you? You’re going to get it, though. Gimme that gun, Slim Dugan.”

  His hand flicked to the butt of his revolver—and clung there, reluctant.

  “I want a square deal,” he complained. “I figure Phil has been crooking the dice on me.”

  “Bah! Besides, I’ll give you a square deal.”

  She held out her hand for the weapon.

  “Got any doubts about me being square, Slim?”

  “Kate, leave this to me.”

  “Why, Slim, I wouldn’t let you run loose now for a million. You got that ugly look in your eyes. I know you, partner.”

  And to the unutterable astonishment of Terry, the man pulled his gun from its holster and passed it to her, his eyes fighting hers, his hand moving slowly. She stepped back, weighing the heavy weapon in her hands. Then she faced Phil Marvin with glittering eyes.

  “It ain’t the first time you’ve been accused of queer stunts with the dice. What’s the straight of it, Phil? Been doing anything to these dice?”

  “Me? Sure, I ain’t.”

  Her glance lingered on him the least part of a second. “H-m-m,” said the girl. “Maybe not.”

  Slim was on his feet, eager. “Take a look at ’em, Kate. Take a look at them dice.”

  She held them up to the light—then dropped them into a pocket of her skirt. “I’ll look at ’em in the morning, Slim.”

  “The stuff’ll be dry by that time.”

  “Dry or not, that’s what I’m going to do. I won’t trust lamplight.”

  Slim turned on his heel and flung himself sulkily down on the blanket, fighting her with sullen eyes.

  She turned on Phil. “How much d’you win?”

  “Nothin’. Just a couple of hundred.”

  “Just a couple of hundred. You call that nothing?”

  Phil grunted. The other men leaned forward in their interest to watch the progress of the trial, all saving Joe Pollard, who sat with his elbows braced in sprawling fashion on the table, at ease, his eyes twinkling contentedly at the girl. Why she refused to examine the dice at once was plain to Terry. If they proved to have been gummed, it would mean a gunfight with the men at a battling temperature. In the morning, when they had cooled down, it might be a different matter. Terry watched her in wonder. His idea of an efficient woman was based on Aunt Elizabeth, cold of eye and brain, practical in methods on the ranch, keen with figures. The efficiency of this slip of a girl was a different matter, a thing of passion, of quick insight, of lightning guesses. He could see the play of eager emotion in her face as she studied Phil Marvin. And how could she do justice? Terry was baffled.

  “How long you two been playing?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “Not more’n five!” cut in Slim hotly.

  “Shut up, Slim,” she commanded. “I’m running this here game. Phil, how many straight passes did you make?”

  “Me? Oh, I dunno. Maybe . . . five.”

  “Five straight passes,” said the girl. “Five straight passes.”

  “You heard me say it,” growled big Phil Marvin.

  All at once she laughed. “Phil, give that two hundred back to Slim.” It came like a bolt from the blue, this decision.

  Marvin hesitated, shook his head. “Damned if I do. I don’t back down. I won it square.”

  “Listen to me,” said the girl. Instead of threatening, as Terry expected, she had suddenly become conciliatory. She stepped close to him and dropped a slim hand on his burly shoulder. “Ain’t Slim a pal of yours? You and him, ain’t you stuck together through thick and thin? He thinks you didn’t win that coin square. Are you going to let two hundred stand between you two? You know what I think about it. But that ain’t the point. Is Slim’s friendship worth two hundred to you, or ain’t it? Besides, you ain’t lying down to nobody. Why, you big square-head, Phil, don’t we all know that you’d fight a bull with your bare hands? Who’d call you yaller? We’d simply say you was square, Phil, and you know it.”

  There was a pause. Phil was biting his lip, scowling at Slim. Slim was sneering in return. It seemed that she had failed. Even if she forced Phil to return the money, he and Slim would hate each other as long as they lived. And Terry gained a keen impression that, if the hatred continued, one of them would die very soon indeed. Her solution to the problem was a strange one. She faced them both.

  “You two big sulky babies!” she exclaimed. “Slim, what did Phil do for you down in Tecomo? Phil, did Slim stand by you last April . . . you know the time? Why, boys, you’re just being plain foolish. Get up, both of you, and take a walk outside where you’ll get cooled down.”

  Slim rose. He and Phil walked slowly toward the door, at a little distance from each other, one eying the other shrewdly. At the door they hesitated. Finally Phil lurched forward and went out first. Slim glided after.

  “By heaven,” groaned Pollard as the door closed. “There goes two good men. Kate, what put this last fool idea into your head?”

  She did not answer for a moment, but dropped into a chair as though suddenly exhausted.

  “It’ll work out,” she said at length. “You wait for it.”

  “Well,” grumbled her father, “the mischief is working. Run along to bed, will you?”

  She rose, wearily, and started across the room. But she turned before she passed out of their sight and leaned against one of the pillars. “Dad, why are you so anxious to get me out of the way?”

  “What d’you mean by that? I got no reason. Run along and don’t bother me.” He turned his shoulder on her. As for the girl, she remained a moment, looking thoughtfully at the broad back of Pollard. Then her glance shifted and dwelt a moment on Terry—with pity he wondered?

  “Good night, boys.”

  They answered her cheerily, and she was gone, her head drooping a little to one side, as though the effort of quelling the incipient fight had drained the last of her power of nerve and body.

  When the door closed on her, Joe Pollard turned his attention more fully on his new employee, and, when Terry suggested that it was time for him to turn in, his suggestion was hospitably put to one side. Pollard began tal
king genially of the mountains, of the varmints he expected Terry to clean out, and, while he talked, he took out a broad silver dollar and began flicking it in the air and catching it in the calloused palm of his hand.

  “Call it,” he interrupted himself to say to Terry.

  “Heads,” said Terry carelessly.

  The coin spun up, flickered at the height of its rise, and rang loudly on the table.

  “You win,” said Pollard. “Well, you’re a lucky gent, Terry, but I’ll go you ten you can’t call it again.”

  But again Terry called heads, and again the coin chimed, steadied, and showed the Grecian goddess. The rancher doubled his bet. He lost, doubled, lost again, doubled again, lost. A pile of money had appeared by magic before Terry.

  “I came to work for money,” laughed Terry, “not take it away.”

  “I always lose at this game.” Joe Pollard sighed.

  The door opened, and Phil Marvin and Slim Dugan came back, talking and laughing together.

  “What d’you know about that?” Pollard exclaimed softly. “She guessed right. She always does. Oughta be a man, with a brain like she’s got. Here we are again.”

  He spun the coin; it winked, fell, a streak of light, and again Terry had won. Terry began to grow excited. On the next throw he lost. A moment later his little pile of winnings had disappeared. And now he had forgotten the face of Joe Pollard, forgotten the room, forgotten everything except the thick thumb that snapped the coin into the air. The cold, quiet passion of the gambler grew in him. He was losing steadily. Out of his wallet came in a steady stream the last of his winnings at Pedro’s. And still he played. Suddenly the wallet squeezed flat between his fingers.

  “Pollard,” he said regretfully, “I’m broke.”

  The other waved away the idea. “Break up a fine game like this because you’re broke?” The cloudy agate eyes dwelt kindly on the face of Terry, and mysteriously as well. “That ain’t nothing. Nothing between friends. You don’t know the style of a man I am, Terry. Your word is as good as your money with me.”