Son of an Outlaw

by Max Brand

  “But first . . . what has he done?”

  Kate hesitated. Under the iron self-control of the older woman she saw the hungry heart, and it stirred her. Yet she was by no means sure of a triumph. She recognized the most formidable of all foes—pride. After all, she wanted to humble that pride. She felt that all the danger in which Terry Hollis now stood, both moral and physical, was indirectly the result of this woman’s attitude. And she struck her, deliberately, cruelly.

  “He’s taken up with a gang of hard ones, Miss Cornish. That’s one thing.” The face of Elizabeth was like stone. “Professional . . . thieves, robbers.” And still Elizabeth refused to wince. She forced a cold, polite smile of attention.

  “He went into a town and killed the best fighter they had.”

  And even this blow did not tell.

  “And then he defied the sheriff, went back to the town, and broke into a bank and stole fifty thousand dollars.”

  The smile wavered and went out, but still the dull eyes of Elizabeth were steady enough. Though perhaps that dullness was from pain. And Kate, waiting eagerly, was chagrined to see that she had not broken through to any softness of emotion. One sign of grief and trembling was all she wanted before she made her appeal, but there was no weakness in Elizabeth Cornish, it seemed. If there was any sense of loss, she concealed it like a good general.

  “You see I am listening,” she said gravely and almost gently. “Although I am really not well. And I hardly see the point of this long recital of crimes. It was because I foresaw what he would become that I sent him away.”

  “Miss Cornish, why’d you take him in in the first place?”

  “It’s a long story,” said Elizabeth.

  “I’m a pretty good listener,” said Kate.

  Elizabeth Cornish looked away, as though she hesitated to touch on the subject, or as though it were too unimportant to be referred to at length. “In brief, I saw from a hotel window, Black Jack, his father, shot down in the street . . . heard about the infant son he left, and adopted the child . . . on a bet with my brother. To see if blood would tell or if I could make him a fine man.” She paused. “My brother won the bet.” And her smile was a wonderful thing, so perfectly did it mask her pain. “And of course I sent Terry away. I have forgotten him, really. Just a bad experiment.”

  Kate Pollard flushed. “You’ll never forget him,” she said firmly. “You think of him every day.”

  The elder woman started and looked sharply at her visitor. Then she dismissed the idea with a shrug. “That’s absurd. Why should I think of him?”

  There is a spirit of prophecy in most women, old or young, and especially they have a way of looking through the flesh of their kind and seeing the heart. Kate Pollard came a little closer to her hostess.

  “You saw Black Jack die in the street,” she queried, “fighting for his life?”

  Elizabeth dreamed into the vague distance. “Riding down the street with his hair blowing . . . long black hair, you know,” she reminisced. “And holding the crowd back as one wolf holds back a crowd of curs. Then . . . he was shot from the side by a man in concealment. That was how he fell.”

  “I knew,” murmured the girl, nodding. “Miss Cornish, I know now why you took in Terry.”

  “Ah?”

  “Not because of a bet . . . but because you . . . you loved Black Jack Hollis!”

  It brought an indrawn gasp from Elizabeth. Rather a horror than surprise.

  But the girl went on steadily: “I know. You saw him with his hair blowing, fighting his way . . . he rode into your heart. I know I tell you. Maybe you’ve never guessed it all these years. But has a single day gone when you haven’t thought of the picture?”

  The scornful, indignant denial died on the lips of Elizabeth Cornish. She stared at Kate as though she were seeing a ghost.

  “Not one day!” cried Kate. “And so you took in Terry, and you raised him and loved him . . . not for a bet, but because he was Black Jack’s son.”

  Elizabeth Cornish had grown paler than before. “I mustn’t listen to such talk,” she said. “You are . . . most unusual, Miss Pollard. But I’m afraid . . . we must stop talking of this.”

  “Ah,” cried the girl, “don’t you see that I have a right to talk? Because I love him, also, and I know that you love him, too.”

  Elizabeth Cornish came to her feet, and the shawl slid from her shoulders and crumbled in a black and mournful heap on the floor. There was a faint flush in her cheeks. “You love Terry? Ah, I see. And he has sent you.”

  “He’d die sooner than send me to you.”

  “And yet . . . you came?”

  “Don’t you see?” pleaded Kate. “He’s in a corner. He’s about to go . . . bad.”

  “Miss Pollard, how do you know these things?”

  “Because I’m the daughter of the leader of the gang.”

  She said it without shame, proudly. It seemed that admission broke down something in the pride of Elizabeth Cornish. Her lips trembled, but she did not speak.

  “I’ve tried to keep him from the life he intends leading,” said Kate. “I can’t turn him. He laughs at me. I’m nothing to him, you see? And he loves the new life. He loves the freedom. Besides, he thinks that there’s no hope. That he has to be what his father was before him. Do you know why he thinks that? Because you turned him out. You thought he would turn bad. And he respects you. He still turns to you. Ah, if you could hear him speak of you. He loves you still.”

  Elizabeth Cornish dropped back into her chair, grown suddenly weak, and Kate fell on her knees beside her and took the work-hardened, thin hands in her own, so soft with youth.

  “Don’t you see,” she said softly, “that no strength can turn Terry back now? He’s done nothing wrong. He shot down the man who killed his father. He has killed another man who was a professional bully and man-killer. And he’s broken into a bank and taken money from a man who deserved to lose it . . . a wolf of a man everybody hates. He’s done nothing really wrong yet, but he will before long. Just because he’s stronger than other men. And he doesn’t know his strength. And he’s fine, Miss Cornish. He’s clean-hearted. His heart is as clear as his eye. Don’t you know how he can look at you? Isn’t he always gentle and . . . ?”

  “Hush,” said Elizabeth Cornish.

  “He’s just a boy . . . you can’t bend him with strength, but you can win him with love.”

  “What,” gasped Elizabeth, “do you want me to do?”

  “Bring him back. Bring him back, Miss Cornish!”

  “He wouldn’t listen to me . . . he . . . I’ve turned him out.”

  “But he’s never forgotten you. He doesn’t blame you. Come to him again. Ask him to come back with you. Offer him his old place. If you ask him for his own sake, he’ll laugh at you. But if you ask him for your sake, he’ll go to the end of the world to do it.”

  Elizabeth Cornish was trembling. “But I . . . if you can’t influence him, how can I? You with your beautiful . . . you are very beautiful, dear child. Ah, very lovely.” She barely touched the bright hair.

  “He doesn’t even think of me,” said the girl sadly. “But I have no shame. I have let you know everything. It isn’t for me. It’s for Terry, Miss Cornish. And you’ll come? You’ll come as quickly as you can? You’ll come to my father’s house? You’ll ask Terry to come back? One word will do it. And I’ll hurry back and . . . keep him there till you come. God give me strength. I’ll keep him till you come.”

  Outside the door, his ear pressed to the crack, Vance Cornish did not wait to hear more. He knew the answer of Elizabeth before she spoke. And all his high-built schemes he saw topple about his ears. Grief had been breaking the heart of his sister, he knew. Grief had been bringing her close to the grave. With Terry back she would regain ten years of life. With Terry back the old life would begin again.

  He straightened and staggered down the stairs like a drunken man, clinging to the banister. It was an old-faced man who came out onto the verandah
, where Waters was chewing his cigar angrily. At sight of his host he started up. He was a keen man, was Waters. He could sense money a thousand miles away. And it was this buzzard keenness that had brought him to Cornish Ranch and made him Vance’s right-hand man. There was much money to be spent; Waters would direct and plan the spending, and his commission would not be small.

  In the face of Vance he saw his own doom.

  “Waters,” said Vance Cornish, “everything is going up in smoke. That damned girl . . . Waters, we’re ruined.”

  “Tush,” said Waters, smiling, though he had grown gray. “No one girl can ruin two middle-aged men with our senses developed. Sit down, man, and we’ll figure a way out of this.”

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  The fine gray head, the hawk-like, aristocratic face, and the superior manner of Waters procured him admission to many places where the ordinary man was barred. It secured him admission on this day to the office of Sheriff McGuire, although McGuire had refused to see his best friends.

  Waters found himself in a dim room, fenced with cracked adobe walls. And the face of the man behind the desk was likewise dim with care and seamed with recent worries and old ones. He chewed and puffed a rag of a cigar, ill-smelling, many times lighted. And a proof of the perturbed state of his mind was that he accepted the proffered fresh cigar of Waters without comment or thanks. When he had bitten off the end however, and drawn the first breath of the fine Havana, some of the frown cleared from his forehead and he looked with more attention at his visitor. Still, his mental troubles made him crisp to the point of rudeness.

  “I’m a tolerable busy man, Mister . . . Waters, I think they said your name was. Tell me what you want, and make it short, if you don’t mind.”

  “Not a bit, sir. I rarely waste many words. But I think on this occasion we have a subject in common that will interest you.”

  Waters had come on what he felt was more or less of a wild-goose chase. The great object was to keep young Hollis from coming in contact with Elizabeth Cornish again. One such interview, as Vance Cornish had assured him, would restore the boy to the ranch, make him the heir to the estate, and turn Vance and his high ambitions out of doors. Also, the high commissions of Mr. Waters would cease. With no plan in mind, he had rushed to the point of contact, and hoped to find some scheme after he arrived there. As for Vance, the latter would promise money; otherwise he was a shaken wreck of a man and of no use. But with money Mr. Waters felt that he had the key to this world and he was not without hope.

  Three hours in the hotel of the town gave him many clues. Three hours of casual gossip on the verandah of the same hotel had placed him in possession of about every fact, true or presumably true, that could be learned, and with the knowledge a plan sprang into his fertile brain. The worn, worried face of the sheriff had been like water on a dry field; he felt that the seed of his plan would immediately spring up and bear fruit.

  “And that thing we got in common?” said the sheriff tersely.

  “It’s this . . . young Terry Hollis.”

  He let that shot go home without a follow-up and was pleased to see the sheriff’s forehead wrinkle with pain. Then he laughed.

  “He’s like a ghost hauntin’ me,” declared McGuire with an attempted laugh that failed flatly. “Every time I turn around somebody throws this Hollis in my face. What is it now?”

  “Do you mind if I run over the situation briefly, as I understand it?”

  “Fire away.”

  The sheriff settled back; he had forgotten his rush of business.

  “As I understand it, you, Mister McGuire, have the reputation of keeping your county clean of crime and scenes of violence.”

  “Huh,” grunted the sheriff.

  “Everyone says,” went on Waters, “that no one except a man named Minter has done such work in meeting the criminal element on their own ground. You have kept your county peaceful. I believe that is true?”

  “Huh,” repeated McGuire. “Kind of soft-soapy, but it ain’t all wrong. They ain’t been much doing in these parts since I started to clean things up.”

  “Until recently,” suggested Waters.

  The face of the sheriff darkened. “Well?” he asked aggressively, as one who would like to browbeat another out of the truth.

  “And then two crimes in a row. First, a gun brawl in broad daylight . . . young Hollis shot a fellow named . . . er . . .”

  “Larrimer,” snapped the sheriff viciously. “It was a square fight. Larrimer forced the scrap.”

  “I suppose so. Nevertheless, it was a gunfight, which isn’t much approved of by the law-abiding order of citizens.”

  “Huh,” remarked the sheriff with increasing warmth.

  “And next, two men raid the bank in the middle of your town, and . . . in spite of you and of special guards . . . blow the door off a safe, and gut the safe of its contents. Am I right?”

  The sheriff merely scowled. “It ain’t clear to me yet,” he declared, “how you and me get together on any topic we got in common. Looks sort of like we was just hearing one old yarn over and over ag’in.”

  “My dear sir”—Waters smiled—“you have not allowed me to come to the crux of my story. Which is that you and I have one great object in common . . . to dispose of this Terry Hollis, for I take it for granted that, if you were to get rid of him, the people who criticize now would do nothing but cheer you. Am I right?”

  “If I could get him.” The sheriff sighed. “Mister Waters, gimme time and I’ll get him, right enough. But the trouble with the gents around these parts is that they been spoiled. I cleaned up all the bad ones so damn’ quick that they think I can do the same with every crook that comes along. But this Hollis is a slick one, I tell you. He covers his tracks. Laughs in my face, and admits what he done when he talks to me, like he done the other day. But as far as evidence goes, I ain’t got anything on him . . . yet. But I’ll get it.”

  “And in the meantime,” said Waters brutally, “they say that you’re getting old.”

  The sheriff became a brilliant purple. “Do they say that?” he muttered. “Do they say that?” His head fell. “The swine,” he groaned. “That’s gratitude for you, Mister Waters. After what I’ve done for ’em . . . they say I’m getting old just because I can’t get anything on this slippery kid right off.”

  He changed from purple to gray. To fail now and lose his position meant a ruined life. And Waters knew what was in his mind.

  “But if you got Terry Hollis, they’d be stronger behind you than ever.”

  “Ah, wouldn’t they, though? Tell me what a great gent I was quick as a flash.” He sneered at the thought of public opinion.

  “And you see,” said Waters, “where I come in is that I have a plan for getting this Hollis you desire so much.”

  “You do?” He rose and grasped the arm of Waters. “You do?”

  Waters nodded. “It’s this way. I understand that he killed Larrimer and Larrimer’s older brother is the one who is rousing public opinion against you. Am I right?”

  “The dog! Yes, you’re right.”

  “Then get Larrimer to send Terry Hollis an invitation to come down into town and meet him face to face in a gunfight. I understand this Hollis is a daredevil sort and wouldn’t refuse an invitation of that nature. He’d have to respond or else lose his growing reputation as a man-eater.”

  “Man-eater? Why, Bud Larrimer wouldn’t be more’n a mouthful for him. Sure he’d come to town. And he’d clean up quick. But Larrimer ain’t fool enough to send such an invite.”

  “You don’t understand me,” persisted Waters patiently. “What I mean is this. Larrimer sends the challenge, if you wish to call it that. He takes up a certain position. Say in a public place. You and your men, if you wish, are posted nearby, but out of view when young Hollis comes. When Terry Hollis arrives, the moment he touches a gun butt, you fill him full of lead and accuse him of using unfair play against Larrimer. Any excuse will do. The public want an end of
young Hollis. They won’t be particular with their questions.” He found it difficult to meet the narrowed eyes of the sheriff.

  “What you want me to do,” said the sheriff with slow effort, “is to set a trap, get Hollis into it, and then . . . murder him?”

  Waters waved both hands. “A brutal way of putting it, my dear fellow.”

  “A true way,” said the sheriff.

  But he was thinking, and Waters waited.

  When he spoke, his voice was soft enough to blend with the sheriff’s thoughts without actually interrupting them.

  “You’re not a youngster any more, Sheriff, and, if you lose out here, your reputation is gone for good. You’ll not have the time to rebuild it. Here is a chance for you not only to stop the evil rumors, but to fortify your past record with a new bit of work that will make people talk of you. They don’t really care how you do it. They won’t split hairs about method. They want Hollis put out of the way. I say, cache yourself away. Let Hollis come to meet Larrimer in a private room. You can arrange it with Larrimer yourself later on. You shoot from concealment the moment Hollis shows his face. It can be said that Larrimer did the shooting, and beat Hollis to the draw. The glory of it will bribe Larrimer.”

  The sheriff listened with a wry face. He was tempted to the breaking point, but honor and honorable ways still held him. He shook his head.

  Waters leaned forward. “My friend,” he said, “I represent in this matter a wealthy man to whom the removal of Terry Hollis will be worth money. Five thousand dollars cash, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff moistened his lips and his eyes grew wild. He had lived long and worked hard and saved little. Yet he shook his head.

  “Ten thousand dollars,” whispered Waters. “Cash.”

  The sheriff groaned, rose, paced the room, and then slumped into a chair. “Tell Bud Larrimer I want to see him,” he said.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The following letter, which was received at the house of Joe Pollard, was indeed a gem of English:

  Mr. Terry Black Jack: