Son of an Outlaw

by Max Brand

  “Don’t you see what I’ve done?” he was saying rapidly. “You wanted to drive me out last night. You said I didn’t fit . . . that I didn’t belong up here. Well, Kate, I started out today to make myself fit to belong to this company of fine fellows.” He laughed a little; if it were not real mirth, at least there was a fierce quality of joy in his voice. “You see, I decided that, if I went away, I’d be lonely. Particularly I’d be lonely as the devil, Kate, for you.”

  Was he mocking entirely? Was there any sincerity in him?

  “You’ve murdered to make yourself one . . . of us?”

  “I’ve only killed a dog . . . which gives me the right, you see.”

  “Terry, you’ve gone mad. Oh, if . . .”

  “Tush, Kate. You exaggerate entirely. Do you know what I’ve really done? Why, I’ve wakened . . . I’ve come to my senses. After all, there was no other place for me to go. I tried the world of good, ordinary working people. I asked them to let me come in and prove my right to be one of them. They threw me out. They hounded me out of towns. They discharged me when I worked honestly on the range. They sent their professional gunmen and bullies after me. And then . . . I reached the limit of my endurance, Kate, and I struck back. And the mockery of it all is this . . . that though they have struck me repeatedly and I have endured it, I . . . having struck back a single time . . . am barred from among them forever. Let it be so.”

  “Hush, Terry. I . . . I’m going to think of ways.”

  “You couldn’t. Last night . . . yes. Today I’ve graduated and received a diploma. I’m a man . . . and I’m free. And freedom is the sweetest thing in the world. There’s no place else for me to go. This is my world. You’re my queen. I’ve won my spurs . . . I’ll use them in your service, Kate.”

  “Stop, Terry!”

  “By the Lord, I will, though. I’m happy . . . don’t you see? And I’m going to be happier. I’m going to work my way along until I can tell you . . . that I love you, Kate . . . that you’re the daintiest body of fire and beauty and temper and gentleness and wisdom and fun that was ever put together in some mysterious manner and crowned with the name of a woman. And . . .”

  But under the rapid fire of his words there was a touch of hardness—mockery, perhaps. She drew back, and he stepped instantly aside. She went by him through the door with bowed head. And Terry, closing it after her, heard the first sob.

  So he closed the door very gently.

  “What’s up with Kate?” asked her father as he went toward the table.

  “A game we’ve rigged up between us,” he said, laughing. “And I don’t know how it will turn out or who’ll win . . . Kate or I, or the devil. Joe, let’s have a look at that black bottle.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was as if a gate that had hitherto been closed against him in the Pollard house were now opened. They no longer held back from Terry, but admitted him freely to their counsels. But the first person to whom he spoke was Slim Dugan. There was a certain nervousness about Slim this evening, and a certain shame. For he felt that in the morning, to an extent, he had backed down from the quarrel with young Black Jack. The killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die, for he felt that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gun play. And every one knew it.

  If Pollard could have had his way, he would have drawn Terry aside and advised him to be cordial to Slim. But there was no need of the advice. The first volley of questions about the Larrimer fight had been expended against the wall of Terry’s smiling reserve without result, and the moment there was silence the son of Black Jack went straight to Slim Dugan.

  “Slim,” he said just loud enough for everyone to hear, “a fellow isn’t himself before noon. I’ve been thinking over that little trouble we had this morning, and I’ve made up my mind that, if there were any fault, it was mine for taking a joke too seriously. At any rate, if it’s agreeable to you, Slim, I’d like to shake hands and call everything square. But if there’s going to be any ill will, let’s have it out right now.”

  It rather stunned Slim Dugan, this generous frankness. Moreover, it had been the prophecy of Pollard in the morning after the quarrel that Terry Hollis would act in exactly this way. The other men interchanged glances; Slim Dugan wrung the hand of Terry without hesitation.

  “If you put it that way,” he said cordially, “I don’t mind saying that I was damned wrong to heave that stone at the horse. And I apologize, Terry.”

  And so everything was forgotten. Indeed, where there had been enmity before, there was now friendship. And there was a breath of relief drawn by every member of the gang. For a noted gunfighter is usually uneasy company. He allows his temper too often to hang in a nice balance, and at the least disturbing of his vanity or peace of mind he resorts to his weapons. The peace-making tendency of Hollis had more effect on the others than a dozen killings. They already granted that he was formidable. They now saw that he was highly desirable, also.

  Dinner that night was a friendly affair, except that Kate stayed in her room with a headache. Johnny, the Chinaman, smuggled a tray to her. Oregon Charlie went to the heart of matters with one of his rare speeches: “You hear me talk, Hollis. She’s mad because you’ve stepped off. She’ll get over it all right.”

  Oregon Charlie had a right to talk. It was an open secret that he had loved Kate faithfully ever since he joined the gang. But apparently Terry Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider. The mutter of his hoofs swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.

  “It’s Sandy,” he fired over his shoulder in explanation.

  A weary-looking fellow came into the room swinging his hat to knock the dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken and no more.

  “News?” said Pollard.

  “News,” grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.

  Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvelous expedition, keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk. Up to that point not a word had been addressed to him. It seemed to be taken for granted that a traveler could not speak until he had eaten.

  “First thing,” he said now—and utter silence spread around the table as he began to talk—“first thing is that McGuire is coming. I seen him on the trail, so I cut to the left and took the short way. He ought to be loping in almost any minute.”

  Terry saw the others looking straight at Pollard; the leader was thoughtful for a moment.

  “Is he coming with a gang, Sandy?”

  “Nope . . . alone.”

  “He was always a nervy cuss. Some day . . .” He left the sentence unfinished.

  Denver had risen noiselessly. “I’m going to beat it for my bunk,” he announced. “Let me know when the sheriff is gone.”

  “Sit where you are, Denver. McGuire ain’t going to lay hands on you.”

  “Sure he ain’t,” agreed Denver. “But I ain’t partial to having guys lay eyes on me, neither. Some of you can go out and beat up trouble. I like to stay put.” And he glided out of the room with no more noise than a sliding shadow. He had hardly disappeared when a heavy hand beat at the door.

  “That’s McGuire,” announced Pollard. “Let him in, Phil.” So saying, he twitched his gun out of the holster, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back. “Don’t try nothing til
l you see me put my hand into my beard, boys. He don’t mean much so long as he’s come alone.”

  Marvin drew back the door. Terry saw a man with shoulders of martial squareness enter. And there was a touch of the military in his brisk step and the curt nod he sent at Marvin as he passed the latter. He had not taken off his sombrero. It cast a heavy shadow across the upper part of his worn, sad face. It was a memorable face to see. Terry dwelt on it until every feature was engraved in his mind; he had a premonition that he would see the man again.

  “’Evening, Sheriff,” came from Pollard, and a muttered chorus from the others repeated the greeting. Terry was rather ashamed of his companions. They were not free of eye and voice, but sullenly, fiercely downheaded, and acted very much, he thought, like children guilty of a sin and expecting a rebuke from a parent. The sheriff cast his glance over them like a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture.

  “’Evening, boys.”

  “Sit down, McGuire.”

  “I’m only staying a minute. I’ll talk standing.”

  It was a declaration of war.

  “I guess this is the first time I been up here, Pollard?”

  “The very first, Sheriff.”

  “Well, if I been kind of neglectful, it ain’t that I’m not interested in you-all a heap.” He brought it out with a faint smile; there was no response to that mirth. “Matter of fact, I been keeping my eye on you fellows right along. Now, I ain’t up here to do no accusing. I’m up here to talk to you man to man. They’s been a good many queer things happen. None of ’em in my county, mind you, or I might have done some talking to you before now. But they’s been a lot of queer things happen right around in the mountains . . . and some of ’em has traced back kind of close to Joe Pollard’s house as a starting point. I ain’t going to go any further. If I’m wrong, they ain’t any harm done . . . if I’m right, you know what I mean. But I tell you this, boys . . . we’re a long-sufferin’ lot, around these parts, but they’s some things that we don’t stand for, and one of ’em that riles us particular much is when a gent that lays out to be a regular hard-working rancher . . . even if he ain’t got much of a ranch to talk about and work about . . . takes man-killers under their wings. It ain’t regular, and it ain’t popular around these parts. I guess you know what I mean.”

  Terry expected Pollard to jump to his feet. But there was no such response. The other men stared down at the table, their lips working. Pollard alone met the eye of the sheriff, and he seemed to be purposely keeping his face a blank so that he might not irritate the martial man.

  The sheriff changed the direction of his glance. Instantly it fell on Terry and stayed there. “You’re the man I mean . . . you’re Terry Hollis, Black Jack’s son?”

  Terry imitated the others and did not reply.

  “Oh, they ain’t any use beating about the bush. You got Black Jack’s blood in you. That’s plain. I remember your old man well enough.”

  Terry rose slowly from his chair. “I think I’m not disputing that, Sheriff. As a matter of fact, I’m very proud of my father.”

  “I think you are,” said the sheriff gravely. “I think you are . . . damned proud of him. So proud you might even figure on imitating what he done in the old days.”

  “Perhaps,” said Terry. The imp of the perverse was up in him now, urging him on.

  “Step soft, Sheriff!” cried Pollard suddenly, as though he sensed a crisis of which the others were unaware. “Terry, keep hold on yourself.”

  The sheriff waved the cautionary advice away. “My nerves are tolerable good, Pollard,” he said coldly. “The kid ain’t scaring me none. And now hark to me, Black Jack. You’ve got away with two gents already . . . two that’s known, I mean. Minter was one and Larrimer was two. Both times it was a square break. But I know your kind like a book. You’re going to step over the line pretty damn’ pronto, and, when you do, I’m going to get you, friend, as sure as the sky is blue. Don’t make no mistake. Get out of this county and stay out if you want to lead a happy life. You ain’t going to do what your dad done before you. I’ll tell you why. In the old days the law was a joke. But it’s tolerable strong now. The weakest gent in the world with the law to help him is stronger than the strongest man without the law. Now you hear me talk . . . get out of these here parts and stay out. We don’t want you. We don’t want none of your kind. I guess that lets you in on my point of view.”

  There was a flinching of the men about the table. They had seen the tigerish suddenness with which Terry’s temper could flare—they had received an object lesson that morning. But to their amazement he remained perfectly cool under fire. He sauntered a little closer to the sheriff.

  “I’ll tell you, McGuire,” he said gently. “Your great mistake is in talking too much. You’ve had a good deal of success, my friend. So much that your head is turned. You’re quite confident that no one will invade your special territory . . . and you keep your sympathy for neighboring counties. You pity the sheriffs around you. Now listen to me. You’ve branded me as a criminal in advance. And I’m not going to disappoint you. I’m going to try to live up to your high hopes. And what I do will be done right in your county, my friend. I’m going to make the sheriffs pity you, McGuire. I’m going to make your life a small bit of hell. You’ve had dull times, I’m afraid. Take courage, my friend. I’m going to wake you up. I’m going to keep you busy. And now . . . get out! And before you judge the next man that crosses your path, wait for the advice of twelve good men and true. You need advice, McGuire. You need it to beat hell. Start on your way.”

  His calmness was shaken a little toward the end of this speech and his voice, at the close, rang sharply at McGuire. The latter considered him from beneath frowning brows for a moment and then, without another word, without a glance to the others and a syllable of adieu, turned and walked slowly, thoughtfully, out of the room.

  Terry walked back to his place. As he sat down he noticed that every eye was upon him, worried. “I’m sorry that I’ve had to do so much talking,” he said. “And I particularly apologize to you, Pollard. But I’m tired of being hounded. As a matter of fact, I’m now going to try to play the part of the hound myself. Action, boys . . . action is what we must have, and action right in this county under the nose of the complacent McGuire.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  There was no exuberant joy to meet this suggestion. McGuire had, as a matter of fact, made his territory practically crime-proof for so long that men had lost interest in planning adventures within the sphere of his authority. It seemed to the four men of Pollard’s gang a peculiar folly to cast a challenge in the teeth of the formidable sheriff himself. Even Pollard was shaken and looked to Denver. But that worthy, who had returned from the door where he was stationed during the presence of the sheriff, remained in his place smiling down at his hands. He, for one, seemed oddly pleased.

  In the meantime Sandy was setting forth his second and particularly interesting news item.

  “You-all know Lewison?” he asked.

  “The sour old grouch,” affirmed Phil Marvin. “Sure, we know him.”

  “I know him, too,” said Sandy. “I worked for the tenderfoot that he skinned out of the ranch. And then I worked for Lewison. If they’s anything good about Lewison, you’d need a spyglass to find it, and then it wouldn’t be fit to see. His wife couldn’t live with him . . . he drove his son off and turned him into a drunk . . . and he’s lived his life for his coin.”

  “Which he ain’t got much to show for it,” remarked Marvin. “He lives like a starved dog.”

  “And that’s just why he’s got the coin,” said Sandy. “He lives on what would make a dog sick and his whole life he’s been saving every cent he’s made. He gave his wife one dress every three years till she died. That’s how tight he is. But he’s sure got the money. Told everybody his kid run off with all his savings. That’s a lie. His kid didn’t have the guts or the sense to steal even what was coming to him for the work he done for the o
ld miser. Matter of fact, he’s got enough coin saved . . . all gold . . . to break the back of a mule. That’s a fact. Never did no investing, but turned everything he made into gold and put it away.”

  “How do you know?” This from Denver.

  “How does a buzzard smell a dead cow?” said Sandy inelegantly. “I ain’t going to tell you how I smell out the facts about money. Wouldn’t be any use to you if you knew the trick. The facts is these . . . he sold his ranch. You know that?”

  “Sure, we know that.”

  “And you know he wouldn’t take nothing but gold coin paid down at the house?”

  “That so?”

  “It sure is! Now the point’s this. He had all his gold in his own private safe at home.”

  Denver groaned.

  “I know, Denver.” Sandy nodded. “Easy pickings for you, but I didn’t find all this out till the other day. Never even knew he had a safe in his house. Not till he has ’em bring out a truck from town and he ships the safe and everything in it to the bank. You see, he sold out his own place and he’s going to another that he bought down the river. Nothing but rattlers thrive in them rocks, so he got it for nothing, pretty near, knowing that where rattlers can live he can make good money . . . the hound. Well, boys, here’s the dodge. That safe of his is in the bank tonight, guarded by old Lewison himself and two gunmen he’s hired for the job. Tomorrow he starts out down the river with the safe on a big wagon, and he’ll have half a dozen guards along with him. Boys, they’s going to be forty thousand dollars in that safe. And the minute she gets out of the county . . . because old McGuire will guard it to the boundary line . . . we can lay back in the hills and . . .”

  “You done enough planning, Sandy,” broke in Joe Pollard. “You’ve smelled out the loot. Leave it to us to get it. Did you say forty thousand?”