Black Jack, Max Brand [snow like ashes .txt] 📗

CHAPTER 1

It was characteristic of the two that when the uproar broke out Vance

Cornish raised his eyes, but went on lighting his pipe. Then his sister

Elizabeth ran to the window with a swish of skirts around her long legs.

After the first shot there was a lull. The little cattle town was as

peaceful as ever with its storm-shaken houses staggering away down the

street.

 

A boy was stirring up the dust of the street, enjoying its heat with his

bare toes, and the same old man was bunched in his chair in front of the

store. During the two days Elizabeth had been in town on her cattle-buying trip, she had never see him alter his position. But she was

accustomed to the West, and this advent of sleep in the town did not

satisfy her. A drowsy town, like a drowsy-looking cow-puncher, might be

capable of unexpected things.

 

“Vance,” she said, “there’s trouble starting.”

 

“Somebody shooting at a target,” he answered.

 

As if to mock him, he had no sooner spoken than a dozen voices yelled

down the street in a wailing chorus cut short by the rapid chattering of

revolvers. Vance ran to the window. Just below the hotel the street made

an elbow-turn for no particular reason except that the original cattle-trail had made exactly the same turn before Garrison City was built.

Toward the corner ran the hubbub at the pace of a running horse. Shouts,

shrill, trailing curses, and the muffled beat of hoofs in the dust. A

rider plunged into view now, his horse leaning far in to take the sharp

angle, and the dust skidding out and away from his sliding hoofs. The

rider gave easily and gracefully to the wrench of his mount.

 

And he seemed to have a perfect trust in his horse, for he rode with the

reins hanging over the horns of his saddle. His hands were occupied by a

pair of revolvers, and he was turned in the saddle.

 

The head of the pursuing crowd lurched around the elbow-turn; fire spat

twice from the mouth of each gun. Two men dropped, one rolling over and

over in the dust, and the other sitting down and clasping his leg in a

ludicrous fashion. But the crowd was checked and fell back.

 

By this time the racing horse of the fugitive had carried him close to

the hotel, and now he faced the front, a handsome fellow with long black

hair blowing about his face. He wore a black silk shirt which accentuated

the pallor of his face and the flaring crimson of his bandanna. And he

laughed joyously, and the watchers from the hotel window heard him call:

“Go it, Mary. Feed ‘em dust, girl!”

 

The pursuers had apparently realized that it was useless to chase.

Another gust of revolver shots barked from the turning of the street, and

among them a different and more sinister sound like the striking of two

great hammers face on face, so that there was a cold ring of metal after

the explosion—at least one man had brought a rifle to bear. Now, as the

wild rider darted past the hotel, his hat was jerked from his head by an

invisible hand. He whirled again in the saddle and his guns raised. As he

turned, Elizabeth Cornish saw something glint across the street. It was

the gleam of light on the barrel of a rifle that was thrust out through

the window of the store.

 

That long line of light wobbled, steadied, and fire jetted from the mouth

of the gun. The black-haired rider spilled sidewise out of the saddle;

his feet came clear of the stirrups, and his right leg caught on the

cantle. He was flung rolling in the dust, his arms flying weirdly. The

rifle disappeared from the window and a boy’s set face looked out. But

before the limp body of the fugitive had stopped rolling, Elizabeth

Cornish dropped into a chair, sick of face. Her brother turned his back

on the mob that closed over the dead man and looked at Elizabeth in

alarm.

 

It was not the first time he had seen the result of a gunplay, and for

that matter it was not the first time for Elizabeth. Her emotion upset

him more than the roar of a hundred guns. He managed to bring her a glass

of water, but she brushed it away so that half of the contents spilled on

the red carpet of the room.

 

“He isn’t dead, Vance. He isn’t dead!” she kept saying.

 

“Dead before he left the saddle,” replied Vance, with his usual calm.

“And if the bullet hadn’t finished him, the fall would have broken his

neck. But—what in the world! Did you know the fellow?”

 

He blinked at her, his amazement growing. The capable hands of Elizabeth

were pressed to her breast, and out of the thirty-five years of

spinsterhood which had starved her face he became aware of eyes young and

dark, and full of spirit; by no means the keen, quiet eyes of Elizabeth

Cornish.

 

“Do something,” she cried. “Go down, and—if they’ve murdered him—”

 

He literally fled from the room.

 

All the time she was seeing nothing, but she would never forget what she

had seen, no matter how long she lived. Subconsciously she was fighting

to keep the street voices out of her mind. They were saying things she

did not wish to hear, things she would not hear. Finally, she recovered

enough to stand up and shut the window. That brought her a terrible

temptation to look down into the mass of men in the street—and women,

too!

 

But she resisted and looked up. The forms of the street remained

obscurely in the bottom of her vision, and made her think of something

she had seen in the woods—a colony of ants around a dead beetle.

Presently the door opened and Vance came back. He still seemed very

worried, but she forced herself to smile at him, and at once his concern

disappeared; it was plain that he had been troubled about her and not in

the slightest by the fate of the strange rider. She kept on smiling, but

for the first time in her life she really looked at Vance without

sisterly prejudice in his favor. She saw a good-natured face, handsome,

with the cheeks growing a bit blocky, though Vance was only twenty-five.

He had a glorious forehead and fine eyes, but one would never look twice

at Vance in a crowd. She knew suddenly that her brother was simply a

well-mannered mediocrity.

 

“Thank the Lord you’re yourself again, Elizabeth,” her brother said first

of all. “I thought for a moment—I don’t know what!”

 

“Just the shock, Vance,” she said. Ordinarily she was well-nigh brutally

frank. Now she found it easy to lie and keep on smiling. “It was such a

horrible thing to see!”

 

“I suppose so. Caught you off balance. But I never knew you to lose your

grip so easily. Well, do you know what you’ve seen?”

 

“He’s dead, then?”

 

He locked sharply at her. It seemed to him that a tremor of unevenness

had come into her voice.

 

“Oh, dead as a doornail, Elizabeth. Very neat shot. Youngster that

dropped him; boy named Joe Minter. Six thousand dollars for Joe. Nice

little nest egg to build a fortune on, eh?”

 

“Six thousand dollars! What do you mean, Vance?”

 

“The price on the head of Jack Hollis. That was Hollis, sis. The

celebrated Black Jack.”

 

“But—this is only a boy, Vance. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old.”

 

“That’s all.”

 

“But I’ve heard of him for ten years, very nearly. And always as a mankiller. It can’t be Black Jack.”

 

“I said the same thing, but it’s Black Jack, well enough. He started out

when he was sixteen, they say, and he’s been raising the devil ever

since. You should have seen them pick him up—as if he were asleep, and

not dead. What a body! Lithe as a panther. No larger than I am, but they

say he was a giant with his hands.”

 

He was lighting his cigarette as he said this, and consequently he did

not see her eyes close tightly. A moment later she was able to make her

expression as calm as ever.

 

“Came into town to see his baby,” went on Vance through the smoke.

“Little year-old beggar!”

 

“Think of the mother,” murmured Elizabeth Cornish. “I want to do

something for her.”

 

“You can’t,” replied her brother, with unnecessary brutality. “Because

she’s dead. A little after the youngster was born. I believe Black Jack

broke her heart, and a very pleasant sort of girl she was, they tell me.”

 

“What will become of the baby?”

 

“It will live and grow up,” he said carelessly. “They always do, somehow.

Make another like his father, I suppose. A few years of fame in the

mountain saloons, and then a knife in the back.”

 

The meager body of Elizabeth stiffened. She was finding it less easy to

maintain her nonchalant smile.

 

“Why?”

 

“Why? Blood will out, like murder, sis.”

 

“Nonsense! All a matter of environment.”

 

“Have you ever read the story of the Jukes family?”

 

“An accident. Take a son out of the best family in the world and raise

him like a thief—he’ll be a thief. And the thief’s son can be raised to

an honest manhood. I know it!”

 

She was seeing Black Jack, as he had raced down the street with the black

hair blowing about his face. Of such stuff, she felt, the knights of

another age had been made. Vance was raising a forefinger in an

authoritative way he had.

 

“My dear, before that baby is twenty-five—that was his father’s

age—he’ll have shot a man. Bet you on it!”

 

“I’ll take your bet!”

 

The retort came