Black Jack Part 4

"But why not? Why not Terry? He's a clean youngster, and he may turn out very well--in spite of his blood. I hope so. The Lord knows you've given him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck!"

He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over it.

"There's the old Vance talking," she said warmly, a mist across her eyes.

"I almost thought that part of you had died."

He writhed inwardly. "By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out of nothing, everything poured into his hands--and now within ten days of his goal! Rather exciting, isn't it? Suppose he should stumble at the very threshold of his success? Eh?"

He pressed the point with singular insistence.

"Doesn't it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might fall--that he might do what I prophesied so long ago--shoot a man before he's twenty-five?"

She shrugged the supposition calmly away.

"My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he fell, after the schooling I've given him, I'd throw him out of my life-- forever."

He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he shrugged in turn. "Tush! Of course, that's impossible. Let's go down."

CHAPTER 4

When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence Colby coming up the terrace from the river road on Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but would try to be on the alert. One ear flagged warily back. He went slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse. Yet, when the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a creature of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave to the side- spring with supple grace and then sent the stallion on up the hill.

Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair was blowing about his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has done a hard day's work and is ready to rest. He came close to the veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly, curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.

"The killer is no longer a killer," laughed Terry. "Look him over, Uncle Vance. A beauty, eh?"

Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.

"He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry."

"Not much more. A leggy horse can't stand mountain work--or any other work, for that matter, except a ride in the park."

"I suppose you're right. He's a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye, but I see that you've beaten him."

"Beaten him?" He shook his head. "We reached a gentleman's agreement. As long as I wear spurs, he'll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise he'll keep on fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop tormenting him, he'll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre.

Eh, boy?"

He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them. The horse stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt came in his eyes.

"No, no!" cried Elizabeth.

But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket.

The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them. Just as he turned, the mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture--a man with long black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping through a dusty street with shots barking behind him. It came suddenly as a revelation, and left him downheaded with the thought.

"What is it, Vance?" asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.

"Nothing." Then he added abruptly: "I'm going for a jaunt for a few days, Elizabeth."

She grew gloomy.

"Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?"

"Not at all. I'm going to be back here in ten days and drink Terry's long life and happiness across the birthday dinner table."

He marvelled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her face.

"You noticed that--his gentleman's agreement with Le Sangre? I've made him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight--men argue and agree."

"I've noticed that he never has trouble with the cow-punchers."

"They've seen him box," chuckled Elizabeth. "Besides, Terry isn't the sort that troublemakers like to pick on. He has an ugly look when he's angry."

"H'm," murmured Vance. "I've noticed that. But as long as he keeps to his fists, he'll do no harm. But what is the reason for surrounding him with guns, Elizabeth?"

"A very good reason. He loves them, you know. Anything from a shotgun to a derringer is a source of joy to Terence. And not a day goes by that he doesn't handle them."

"Certainly the effect of blood, eh?" suggested Vance.

She glanced sharply at him.

"You're determined to be disagreeable today, Vance. As a matter of fact, I've convinced him that for the very reason he is so accurate with a gun he must never enter a gun fight. The advantage would be too much on his side against any ordinary man. That appeals to Terry's sense of fair play. No, he's absolutely safe, no matter how you look at it."

"No doubt."

He looked away from her and over the valley. The day had worn into the late afternoon. Bear Creek ran dull and dark in the shadow, and Mount Discovery was robed in blue to the very edge of its shining crown of snow. In this dimmer, richer light the Cornish ranch had never seemed so desirable to Vance. It was not a ranch; it was a little kingdom. And Vance was the dispossessed heir.

He knew that he was being watched, however, and all that evening he was at his best. At the dinner table he guided the talk so that Terence Colby was the lion of the conversation. Afterward, when he was packing his things in his room for his journey of the next day, he was careful to sing at the top of his voice. He reaped a reward for this cautious acting, for the next morning, when he climbed into the buckboard that was to take him down the Blue Mountain road and over to the railroad, his sister came down the steps and stood beside the wagon.

"You _will_ come back for the birthday party, Vance?" she pleaded.

"You want me to?"

"You were with me when I got Terry. In fact, you got him for me. And I want you to be here when he steps into his own."

In this he found enough to keep him thoughtful all the way to the railroad while the buckskins grunted up the grade and then spun away down the long slope beyond. It was one of those little ironies of fate that he 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 sh.e.l.l 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.