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

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“Whatever you done before you come to Halfaday ain’t none of our business,” said Black John evenly. “After you got here, though, what you done is our business—like murderin’ Beezely—an’ aimin’ to rob our safe.”

“It’s a damn lie!” cried the man, his face contorted with rage. “You can’t prove a word of it!”

“Oh yes he kin, Dook,” said a voice as Breckenridge stepped out from behind the big man. “An’ he kin prove that you threatened to kill old Quince Beezely on sight, too.”

Suddenly, a long blade gleamed in the half-light as the Duke’s partner, with a swift movement, drew back his arm. There was a loud explosion, and the Duke pitched forward upon his face.

Black John, standing a pace or two in front of the others, never turned his head. “Everyone throw a fresh shell in his gun,” he ordered. “A coroner’s inquest will have to investigate this fresh killin’. An’ it would be better if we wasn’t to find no empty shell in anyone’s gun.

“Come on, now, we’ll be takin’ this other one along before somethin’ definite happens to him. You know we don’t encourage murder on Halfaday.”

Black John Smith returned his empty glass to the bar and eyed the stranger who stood framed in the open doorway of the saloon. The man was tall and angular, smooth-shaven, with a thin, sharp nose, a pair of close-set, glittering black eyes. A light pack swung by its straps from the crook of his elbow.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “I trust that I have at last arrived at Cushing’s Fort on Halfaday Creek.”

“Sech trust as yourn has be’n rewarded this time,” Black John replied. “Step up. The house is buyin’ a drink.”

Old Cush set out bottle and glasses as the man advanced to the battered brass rail, swung the pack to the bar and faced the two with a thin-lipped smile.

“My name is Beezely, gentlemen—J. Q. A. Beezely, attorney at law.”

Black John regarded the man with interest. “A lawyer, eh? Well, we’ve had damn near every other kind of a miscreant there is show up on Halfaday, so I s’pose it was only a question of time till a lawyer would come.”

The thin-lipped smile widened. “Gentlemen, my appearance on Halfaday Creek may well prove a godsend to you.”

“In what way,” queried Black John, “could a lawyer be a godsend to a crick?”

“In other words, I may prove a blessing in disguise.”

“If the blessin’ is as good as the disguise,” retorted the big man, “we prob’ly won’t have no kick comin’. Smith is my name—Black John, to be exact. An’ behind the bar is Lyme Cushing, proprietor of the fort.”

The man regarded the two with interest. “So you’re Black John Smith, the king of Halfaday, are you? And you’re Cushing? I’m glad to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. I heard about you in Whitehorse.”

Black John frowned slightly. “Me an’ Cush will admit, fer the sake of veracity, that we’re gentlemen without bein’ reminded of it every time you open yer head. An’ as fer me bein’ king of Halfaday—it looks like you’d got off on the wrong foot, to start out with.”

“No offense, gent—no offense, I assure you. Quite the contrary! I was merely repeating what I had gathered in Whitehorse.”

“On Halfaday,” replied Black John dryly, “what a man gathers, he keeps to himself—if he kin. How did you git here? An’ why?”

“I hired an Indian in Whitehorse, and we made the journey in a canoe. Devilish trip—that long upstream grind. No wonder you men feel safe from the long arm of the law. My reason for coming is simple. It seemed to be common knowledge in Whitehorse that Halfaday Creek, lying as it is reported to lie, close against the international boundary line, affords a safe haven for numerous outlaws. I was headed for the Klondike—for Dawson. You see, I realized that, with thousands of people pouring into the fabulously rich gold field, innumerable disputes would be bound to arise, and the services of an attorney would be in great demand. Therefore, gen—therefore, I decided to locate there and to practice my profession.” The man paused momentarily and toyed with his glass of liquor. “But at Whitehorse I heard of Halfaday Creek and immediately I changed my plans. You see, g—you see, I specialize in criminal law.”

“Yeah,” observed Black John. “Quite a lot of the boys along the crick has took a crack at it, too—one way er another.”

“I mean that I practice criminal law.”

“Well, a little more practice wouldn’t hurt several of the boys which they ondoubtless bungled their job——”

“I practice at the bar——”

“Yeah, I see,” interrupted the big man impatiently. “But if you’ve practiced enough at this one, would you mind h’istin’ that drink—so we kin go ahead with another? This here licker of Cush’s was s’posed to have age enough onto it when it was bottled.”

“I have successfully defended some of the most notorious criminals in America,” boasted the man as he rasped the raw liquor from his throat and refilled his glass. “My fame as a mouthpiece has spread over half a continent. Crooks and super-crooks have paid me thousands, simply as retaining fees—and other thousands to free them when they became enmeshed in the toils of the law.”

“Why would you throw up a good business like that an’ hit fer the Klondike?” asked Black John, his blue-gray eyes resting for a fleeting moment on the light packsack that lay just beyond the man’s elbow on the bar.

“As I told you,” Beezely replied, downing his second drink and ordering another round, “I became intrigued with the possibilities of the gold field. But at Whitehorse I heard of Halfaday, and right then I changed my plans. Mining law may be—and doubtless is—remunerative in a high degree. But when the clients are at hand, so is criminal law. And, as criminal law is my specialty, why change? First, last and all the time, I am a criminal lawyer!”

“I kin well believe it,” admitted Black John, his eyes once more on the packsack. “Of course, it ain’t none of our business what any man done before he come to Halfaday, but I was jest wonderin’ what kind of crime it was that headed you north?”

“Let us all be frank——”

“Nope,” interrupted Cush. “It won’t work. Here a while back, everyone that come to Halfaday wanted to be John—John Smith—till it led to sech a mix-up that me an’ John invented the name can. It would amount to the same thing if we was all to be Frank. Drink up, an’ I’ll buy another.”