Black Jack, Max Brand [snow like ashes .txt] 📗
- Author: Max Brand
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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 Jack. 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.
The next morning he had asked his visitor to sit for a picture, and his
request had been granted. All day he labored at the canvas, and by night
the work was far enough along for him to dismiss his visitor. So the
stranger asked for a small brush with black paint on it, and in the
corner of the canvas drew in the words “Yours, Black Jack.” Then he rode
into the night.
Black Jack! Lawrence Montgomery had made up his pack and struck straight
back for the nearest town. There he asked for tidings of a certain Black
Jack, and there he got what he wanted in heaps. Everyone knew Black
Jack—too well! There followed a brief summary of the history of the
desperado and his countless crimes, unspeakable tales of cunning and
courage and merciless vengeance taken.
Vance Cornish turned the last page of the article, and there was the
reproduction of the painting. He held his breath when he saw it. The
outlaw sat on his horse with his head raised and turned, and it was the
very replica of Terence Colby as the boy had waved to them from the back
of Le Sangre. More than a family, sketchy resemblance—far more.
There was the same large, dark eye; the same smile, half proud and half
joyous; the same imperious lift of the head; the same bold carving of the
features. There were differences, to be sure. The nose of Black Jack had
been more cruelly arched, for instance, and his cheekbones were higher
and more pronounced. But in spite of the dissimilarities the resemblance
was more than striking. It might have stood for an actual portrait of
Terence Colby masquerading in long hair.
When the full meaning of this photograph had sunk into his mind, Vance
Cornish closed his eyes. “Eureka!” he whispered to himself.
There was something more to be done. But it was very simple. It merely
consisted in covertly cutting out the pages of the article in question.
Then, carefully, for fear of loss, he jotted down the name and date of
the magazine, folded his stolen pages, and fitted them snugly into his
breast pocket. That night he ate his first hearty dinner in four days.
Vance’s work was not by any means accomplished. Rather, it might be said
that he was in the position of a man with a dangerous charge for a gun
and no weapon to shoot it. He started out to find the gun.
In fact, he already had it in mind. Twenty-four hours later he was in
Craterville. Five days out of the ten before the twenty-fifth birthday of
Terence had elapsed, and Vance was still far from his goal, but he felt
that the lion’s share of the work had been accomplished.
Craterville was a day’s ride across the mountains from the Cornish ranch,
and it was the county seat. It was one of those towns which spring into
existence for no reason that can be discovered, and cling to life
generations after they should have died. But Craterville held one thing
of which Vance Cornish was in great need, and that was Sheriff Joe
Minter, familiarly called Uncle Joe. His reason for wanting the sheriff
was perfectly simple. Uncle Joe Minter was the man who killed Black Jack
Hollis.
He had been a boy of eighteen then, shooting with a rifle across a window
sill. That shot had formed his life. He was now forty-two and he had
spent the interval as the professional enemy of criminals in the
mountains. For the glory which came from the killing of Black Jack had
been sweet to the youthful palate of Minter, and he had cultivated his
taste. He became the most dreaded manhunter in those districts where
manhunting was most common. He had been sheriff at Craterville for a
dozen years now, and still his supremacy was not even questioned.
Vance Cornish was lucky to find the sheriff in town presiding at the head
of the long table of the hotel at dinner. He was a man of great dignity.
He wore his stiff black hair, still untarnished by gray, very long,
brushing it with difficulty to keep it behind his ears. This mass of
black hair framed a long, stern face, the angles of which had been made
by years. But there was no sign of weakness. He had grown dry, not
flabby. His mouth was a thin, straight line, and his fighting chin jutted
out in profile.
He rose from his place to greet Vance Cornish. Indeed, the sheriff acted
the part of master of ceremonies at the hotel, having a sort of silent
understanding with the widow who owned the place. It was said that the
sheriff would marry the woman sooner or later, he so loved to talk at her
table. His talk doubled her business. Her table afforded him an audience;
so they needed one another.
“You don’t remember me,” said Vance.
“I got a tolerable poor memory for faces,” admitted the sheriff.
“I’m Cornish, of the Cornish ranch.”
The sheriff was duly impressed. The Cornish ranch was a show place. He
arranged a chair for Vance at his right, and presently the talk rose
above the murmur to which it had been depressed by the arrival of this
important stranger. The increasing noise made a background. It left Vance
alone with the sheriff.
“And how do you find your work, sheriff?” asked Vance; for he knew that
Uncle Joe Minter’s great weakness was his love of talk. Everyone in the
mountains knew it, for that matter.
“Dull,” complained Minter. “Men ain’t what they used to be, or else the
law is a heap stronger.”
“The men who enforce the law are,” said Vance.
The sheriff absorbed this patent compliment with the blank eye of
satisfaction and rubbed his chin.
“But they’s been some talk of rustling, pretty recent. I’m waiting for it
to grow and get ripe. Then I’ll bust it.”
He made an eloquent gesture which Vance followed. He was distinctly
pleased with the sheriff. For Minter was wonderfully preserved. His face
seemed five years younger than his age. His body seemed even younger—
round, smooth, powerful muscles padding his shoulders and stirring down
the length of his big arms. And his hands had that peculiar light
restlessness of touch which Vance remembered to have seen—in the hands
of Terence Colby, alias Hollis!
“And how’s things up your way?” continued the sheriff.
“Booming. By the way, how long is it since you’ve seen the ranch?”
“Never been there. Bear Creek Valley has always been a quiet place since
the Cornishes moved in; and they ain’t been any call for a gent in my
line of business up that way.”
He grinned with satisfaction, and Vance nodded.
“If times are dull, why
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