James Beardley Hendryx - Black John of Halfaday Creek (James B. Hendryx) (Literary Thoughts Edition)

Breckenridge laughed shortly. “I told you Quince was smart. He hand-picked that mob. He knows every crook in the country. There wasn’t a damn man in it that wasn’t in bad fer double-crossin’ some pal, er turnin’ state’s evidence, er somethin’. There wasn’t a crook in the country that didn’t laugh with the screws when they heard the squawk. They’d even laughed harder if the mob had got the rope. Most of ’em didn’t believe Quince had crossed ’em up—an’ them that did, said it was a damn good thing—an’ liked Quince all the better.”

“H-u-m,” Black John grunted, “but even so—what a man done before he come to Halfaday ain’t none of our business. It’s what he does after he gits here that interests us. You mentioned, a while back, somethin’ about Cush’s safe.”

“Only that Quince figgers on takin’ it, is all,” grinned Breckenridge.

“How do you know?”

“I know because he told me.” The man’s voice became suddenly hard. “Git an earful of this—there’s plenty on me back in the States an’ old Quince knows it—he knows a lot more about it than even the cops do—an’ they know plenty. I’m wanted on a rap that’s good fer the long stretch—an’ not a chanct of beatin’ it—see? When I hit here an’ draw’d that name out of the can I figger’d I’m all set. I like it here. I believe I’ve got a good thing up the crick an’ I want to stay with it. I’m on the up-an’-up, here on Halfaday. I ain’t claimin’ I always will be, nor none of that crap. Mebbe I will; an’ mebbe I won’t. Anyhow, it’s the first time in years that I ain’t be’n lookin’ over my shoulder. Now Quince shows up. He lamps me the minute I lamps him—see? He figgers I’m right down his alley. He knows there ain’t no box made that I can’t git on the inside of. He tells me how much is in that old can of Cush’s an’ how you guys all think it’s the nuts. Hell, that can wouldn’t stop me fifteen minutes! I could kick a hole in it anywheres—an’ you kin hear them damn old tumblers rattle clean acrost the room. Quince, he claims he’s got the latest thing that’s out in the way of a jointed can opener.”

“Yeah,” agreed Black John. “I was lookin’ it over. I seen him lift a package out of one sack an’ stick it in another the day he come, so one day when he was off down the crick I looked it over. It seems like a useful tool. A man could git a hell of a leverage with it when all them parts was screwed together.”

“Sure. But I wouldn’t need no tool to crack that box. Hell—I could go over there right now an’ git into it as quick as Cush could. Quince kin case a job all right, but when it comes down to doin’ the work, he’d be jest like any other punk—thinkin’ a man would need a can opener fer a job like that! It makes me laugh! Claimed he had a bottle of soup, too.”

“Soup! You mean he’s got nitroglycerin in that bottle? Cripes, I thought it was some kind of licker!”

The other grinned. “If you take a drink of it, don’t set down hard fer a while. But, layin’ the kiddin’ aside, Quince means business. I didn’t say much—jest let him go ahead an’ talk. “He’s figgerin’ on pullin’ the job Sunday night. He claims that the boys will prob’ly play stud all night Saturday, an’ Cush will close early on Sunday night. Claims that’s what they done last week. Says we ort to be in the clear by midnight, Sunday.”

Black John nodded. “Yeah, he’s about right, at that.”

“He claimed there was enough paper in the box so we wouldn’t have to bother with the gold—it would be too heavy.”

“We?”

“Sure—me an’ him. He’s rung me in on the job—see? I told him right flat that I wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with it. You guys has be’n on the level with me. An’ like I said, fer the last six months I ain’t be’n lookin’ over my shoulder.

“But Quince jest grins when I tells him that. ‘You’ll begin lookin’ over yer shoulder agin, damn quick,’ he says, ‘if you don’t take on this job. The police in Dawson will have yer prints, an’ a damn good description—an’ a long record. An’ I kin help ’em out with more—plenty more. They’d appreciate a tip on where yer hidin’ out.’ ” The man paused and ran his fingers nervously through his hair. “An’ the hell of it is, he’s right. But I’ll be damned if I’ll pull that job! I come awful near killin’ Quince where he stood—but I know’d what the miners’ meetin’ would do about that.”

“Yeah,” agreed Black John. “We don’t encourage murder on Halfaday.”

“It looks like I’m on the spot, no matter which way the cat jumps.”

Black John combed at his thick beard with his fingers. “Oh, I don’t know. It’s only Wednesday. There’s quite a bit of time to figger between now an’ Sunday night. Why not jest let him go ahead an’ pull the job the way he’s got it figgered out?”

“Pull the job!” exclaimed the man. “Hell—it won’t be him pullin’ it. It’ll be me! He’ll be damn good an’ careful not to show up in it. You know what a miners’ meetin’ would do to a guy caught robbin’ that safe! An’ old Quince would be the first one to grab the rope. Damn if I’ll git mixed up in any job on Halfaday. I’ll take it on the lam first.”

The blue-gray eyes of the big man met the eyes of the other squarely. “I’ve got my faults,” he said, with seeming irrelevance. “But double-crossin’ a friend ain’t one of ’em. An’ I’m advisin’ you to go ahead.”

The man’s eyes held Black John’s long and searchingly. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll take a chance. I better be hittin’ back now. Quince went on up the crick. He told me I better think it over. Said he’d stop late this afternoon fer my answer. Where’ll I see you before Sunday night?”

“Saturday night, like Beezely said, there’ll be a stud game. Beezely’ll be settin’ in it. So will I. At ten o’clock I’ll drop out an’ go out back. You be waitin’ there.”

“Okay. I’ll be seein’ you.”

A few minutes later, when Black John strolled into the saloon, old Cush regarded him searchingly as he set out the bottle and glasses. “What did he want?” he asked.

“What did who want?”

“Why, Breckenridge, of course. Who’d you think I meant?”

“Oh—him. Cripes, I’d fergot he’d even be’n down here. Why, he run in amongst some rocks in his shaft an’ wanted to borrow my pick.”

“Borry a pick? What was so private about that?”

The big man shrugged. “Why, damn if I know. You know how some folks is—kind of secretive that-a-way. Hell, Cush—you don’t think I’d lie to you, do you?”

The following morning Beezely took leave of Black John. “I’m greatly obliged to you,” he said, as he departed from the cabin with his pack, “for the tip about depositing my money and for your royal hospitality. I only hope that I may someday be permitted to return the favors.

“I rather like that place of Whisky Bill’s and I may like mining. At least I’ve decided to stay here until fall. The life in the open will do me good. In the meantime, I shall endeavor to get down to the fort at least on Saturday nights for the stud game. I shall, of course, keep in touch with you, and should you reconsider that matter of organization we can doubtless embark on a very prosperous enterprise. If not, in the fall I think I shall move on to Dawson and open an office for the practice of law. I engaged a man I ran across up the creek—Breckenridge, he said his name was—to assist me in moving my supplies up the creek in my canoe. He will doubtless be waiting for me at the fort. Good-by, my friend. I’ll be toddling along now. I have a long trail ahead of me—and a rough one.”