"Why?"

"I shot a man."

"Ah!" said Kate. "You shot a man?" It seemed to silence her. "Why, Terry?"

"He had killed my father," he explained, more softly than ever.

"I know. It was Minter. And they turned you out for that?"

There was a trembling intake of her breath. He could catch the sparkle of her eyes, and knew that she had flown into one of her sudden, fiery passions. And it warmed his heart to hear her.

"I'd like to know what kind of people they are, anyway! I'd like to meet up with that Elizabeth Cornish, the—"

"She's the finest woman that ever breathed," said Terry simply.

"You say that," she pondered slowly, "after she sent you away?"

"She did only what she thought was right. She's a little hard, but very just, Kate."

She was shaking her head; the hair had become a dull and wonderful gold in the faint moonshine.

"I dunno what kind of a man you are, Terry. I didn't ever know a man could stick by—folks—after they'd been hurt by 'em. I couldn't do it. I ain't got much Bible stuff in me, Terry. Why, when somebody does me a wrong, I hate 'em—I hate 'em! And I never forgive 'em till I get back at 'em." She sighed. "But you're different, I guess. I begin to figure that you're pretty white, Terry Hollis."

There was something so direct about her talk that he could not answer. It seemed to him that there was in her a cross between a boy and a man—the simplicity of a child and the straightforward strength of a grown man, and all this tempered and made strangely delightful by her own unique personality.

"But I guessed it the first time I looked at you," she was murmuring. "I guessed that you was different from the rest."

She had her elbow on her knee now, and, with her chin cupped in the graceful hand, she leaned toward him and studied him.

"When they're clean-cut on the outside, they're spoiled on the inside. They're crooks, hard ones, out for themselves, never giving a rap about the next gent in line. But mostly they ain't even clean on the outside, and you can see what they are the first time you look at 'em.

"Oh, I've liked some of the boys now and then; but I had to make myself like 'em. But you're different. I seen that when you started talking. You didn't sulk; and you didn't look proud like you wanted to show us what you could do; and you didn't boast none. I kept wondering at you while I was at the piano. And—you made an awful hit with me, Terry."

Again he was too staggered to reply. And before he could gather his wits, the girl went on:

"Now, is they any real reason why you shouldn't get out of here tomorrow morning?"

It was a blow of quite another sort.

"But why should I go?"

She grew very solemn, with a trace of sadness in her voice.

"I'll tell you why, Terry. Because if you stay around here too long, they'll make you what you don't want to be—another Black Jack. Don't you see that that's why they like you? Because you're his son, and because they want you to be another like him. Not that I have anything against him. I guess he was a fine fellow in his way." She paused and stared directly at him in a way he found hard to bear. "He must of been! But that isn't the sort of a man you want to make out of yourself. I know. You're trying to go straight. Well, Terry, nobody that ever stepped could stay straight long when they had around 'em Denver Pete and—my father." She said the last with a sob of grief. He tried to protest, but she waved him away.

"I know. And it's true. He'd do anything for me, except change himself. Believe me, Terry, you got to get out of here—pronto. Is they anything to hold you here?"

"A great deal. Three hundred dollars I owe your father."

She considered him again with that mute shake of the head. Then: "Do you mean it? I see you do. I don't suppose it does any good for me to tell you that he cheated you out of that money?"

"If I was fool enough to lose it that way, I won't take it back."

"I knew that, too—I guessed it. Oh, Terry, I know a pile more about the inside of your head than you'd ever guess! Well, I knew that—and I come with the money so's you can pay back Dad in the morning. Here it is—and they's just a mite more to help you on your way."

She laid the little handful of gold on the table beside the bed and rose.

"Don't go," said Terry, when he could speak. "Don't go, Kate! I'm not that low. I can't take your money!"

She stood by the bed and stamped lightly. "Are you going to be a fool about this, too?"

"Your father offered to give me back all the money I'd won. I can't do it, Kate."

He could see her grow angry, beautifully angry.

"Is they no difference between Kate Pollard and Joe Pollard?"

Something leaped into his throat. He wanted to tell her in a thousand ways just how vast that difference was.

"Man, you'd make a saint swear, and I ain't a saint by some miles. You take that money and pay Dad, and get on your way. This ain't no place for you, Terry Hollis."

"I—" he began.

She broke in: "Don't say it. You'll have me mad in a minute. Don't say it."

"I have to. I can't take money from you."

"Then take a loan."

He shook his head.

"Ain't I good enough to even loan you money?" she cried fiercely.

The shaft of moonlight had poured past her feet; she stood in a pool of it.

"Good enough?" said Terry. "Good enough?" Something that had been accumulating in him now swelled to bursting, flooded from his heart to his throat. He hardly knew his own voice, it was so transformed with sudden emotion.

"There's more good in you than in any man or woman I've ever known."

"Terry, are you trying to make me feel foolish?"

"I mean it—and it's true. You're kinder, more gentle—"

"Gentle? Me? Oh, Terry!"

But she sat down on the bed, and she listened to him with her face raised, as though music were falling on her, a thing barely heard at a perilous distance.

"They've told you other things, but they don't know. I know, Kate. The moment I saw you I knew, and it stopped my heart for a beat—the knowing of it. That you're beautiful—and true as steel; that you're worthy of honor—and that I honor you with all my heart. That I love your kindness, your frankness, your beautiful willingness to help people, Kate. I've lived with a woman who taught me what was true. You've taught me what's glorious and worth living for. Do you understand, Kate?"

And no answer; but a change in her face that stopped him.

"I shouldn't of come," she whispered at length, "and I—I shouldn't have let you—talk the way you've done. But, oh, Terry—when you come to forget what you've said—don't forget it all the way—keep some of the things—tucked away in you—somewhere—"

She rose from the bed and slipped across the white brilliance of the shaft of moonlight. It made a red-gold fire of her hair. Then she flickered into the shadow. Then she was swallowed by the darkness.



CHAPTER 28

There was no Kate at breakfast the next morning. She had left the house at dawn with her horse.

"May be night before she comes back," said her father. "No telling how far she'll go. May be tomorrow before she shows up."

It made Terry thoughtful for reasons which he himself did not understand. He had a peculiar desire to climb into the saddle on El Sangre and trail her across the hills. But he was very quickly brought to the reality that if he chose to make himself a laboring man and work out the three hundred dollars he would not take back from Joe Pollard, the big man was now disposed to make him live up to his word.

He was sent out with an ax and ordered to attack a stout grove of the pines for firewood. But he quickly resigned himself to the work. Whatever gloom he felt disappeared with the first stroke that sunk the edge deep into the soft wood. The next stroke broke out a great chip, and a resinous, fresh smell came up to him.

He made quick work of the first tree, working the morning chill out of his body, and as he warmed to his labor, the long muscles of arms and shoulders limbering, the blows fell in a shower. The sturdy pines fell one by one, and he stripped them of branches with long, sweeping blows of the ax, shearing off several at a stroke. He was not an expert axman, but he knew enough about that cunning craft to make his blows tell, and a continual desire to sing welled up in him.

Once, to breathe after the heavy labor, he stepped to the edge of the little grove. The sun was sparkling in the tops of the trees; the valley dropped far away below him. He felt as one who stands on the top of the world. There was flash and gleam of red; there stood El Sangre in the corral below him; the stallion raised his head and whinnied in reply to the master's whistle.

A great, sweet peace dropped on the heart of Terry Hollis. Now he felt he was at home. He went back to his work.

But in the midmorning Joe Pollard came to him and grunted at the swath Terry had driven into the heart of the lodgepole pines.

"I wanted junk for the fire," he protested; "not enough to build a house. But I got a little errand for you in town, Terry. You can give El Sangre a stretching down the road?"

"Of course."

It gave Terry a little prickling feeling of resentment to be ordered about. But he swallowed the resentment. After all, this was labor of his own choosing, though he could not but wonder a little, because Joe Pollard no longer pressed him to take back the money he had lost. And he reverted to the talk of Kate the night before. That three hundred dollars was now an anchor holding him to the service of her father. And he remembered, with a touch of dismay, that it might take a year of ordinary wages to save three hundred dollars. Or more than a year.

It was impossible to be downhearted long, however. The morning was as fresh as a rose, and the four men came out of the house with Pollard to see El Sangre dancing under the saddle. Terry received the commission for a box of shotgun cartridges and the money to pay for them.

"And the change," said Pollard liberally, "don't worry me none. Step around and make yourself to home in town. About coming back—well, when I send a man into town, I figure on him making a day of it. S'long, Terry!"

"Hey," called Slim, "is El Sangre gun-shy?"

"I suppose so."

The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off.

"Here's to try him."

The gun flashed into Slim's hand and boomed. El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise. The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship.

"But what'll he do if you pull a gun yourself?" asked Joe Pollard, showing a sudden concern.

"He'll stand for it—long enough," said Terry. "Try him!"

There was a devil in Slim that morning. He snatched up a shining bit of quartz and hurled it—straight at El Sangre! There was no warning—just a jerk of the arm and the stone came flashing.

"Try your gun—on that!"

The words were torn off short. The heavy gun had twitched into the hand of Terry, exploded, and the gleaming quartz puffed into a shower of bright particles that danced toward the earth. El Sangre flew into a paroxysm of educated bucking of the most advanced school. The steady voice of Terry Hollis brought him at last to a quivering stop. The rider was stiff in the saddle, his mouth a white, straight line.

He shoved his revolver deliberately back into the holster.

The four men had drawn together, still muttering with wonder. Luck may have had something to do with the success of that snapshot, but it was such a feat of marksmanship as would be remembered and talked about.

"Dugan!" said Terry huskily.

Slim lunged forward, but he was ill at ease.

"Well, kid?"

"It seemed to me," said Terry, "that you threw that stone at El Sangre. I hope I'm wrong?"

"Maybe," growled Slim. He flashed a glance at his companions, not at all eager to push this quarrel forward to a conclusion in spite of his known prowess. He had been a little irritated by the adulation which had been shown to the son of Black Jack the night before. He was still more irritated by the display of fine riding. For horsemanship and clever gunplay were the two main feathers in the cap of Slim Dugan. He had thrown the stone simply to test the qualities of this new member of the gang; the snapshot had stunned him. So he glanced at his companions. If they smiled, it meant that they took the matter lightly. But they were not smiling; they met his glance with expressions of uniform gravity. To torment a nervous horse is something which does not fit with the ways of the men of the mountain desert, even at their roughest. Besides, there was an edgy irritability about Slim Dugan which had more than once won him black looks. They wanted to see him tested now by a foeman who seemed worthy of his mettle. And Slim saw that common desire in his flickering side glance. He turned a cold eye on Terry.

"Maybe," he repeated. "But maybe I meant to see what you could do with a gun."

"I thought so," said Terry through his teeth. "Steady, boy!"

El Sangre became a rock for firmness. There was not a quiver in one of his long, racing muscles. It was a fine tribute to the power of the rider.

"I thought you might be trying out my gun," repeated Terry. "Are you entirely satisfied?"

He leaned a little in the saddle. Slim moistened his lips. It was a hard question to answer. The man in the saddle had become a quivering bundle of nerves; Slim could see the twitching of the lips, and he knew what it meant. Instinctively he fingered one of the broad bright buttons of his shirt. A man who could hit a glittering thrown stone would undoubtedly be able to hit that stationary button. The thought had elements in it that were decidedly unpleasant. But he had gone too far. He dared not recede now if he wished to hold up his head again among his fellows—and fear of death had never yet controlled the actions of Slim Dugan.

"I dunno," he remarked carelessly. "I'm a sort of curious gent. It takes more than one lucky shot to make me see the light."

The lips of Terry worked a moment. The companions of Slim Dugan scattered of one accord to either side. There was no doubting the gravity of the crisis which had so suddenly sprung up. As for Joe Pollard, he stood in the doorway in the direct line projected from Terry to Slim and beyond. There was very little sentiment in the body of Joe Pollard. Slim had always been a disturbing factor in the gang. Why not? He bit his lips thoughtfully.

"Dugan," said Terry at length, "curiosity is a very fine quality, and I admire a man who has it. Greatly. Now, you may notice that my gun is in the holster again. Suppose you try me again and see how fast I can get it out of the leather—and hit a target."

The challenge was entirely direct. There was a perceptible tightening in the muscles of the men. They were nerving themselves to hear the crack of a gun at any instant. Slim Dugan, gathering his nerve power, fenced for a moment more of time. His narrowing eyes were centering on one spot on Terry's body—the spot at which he would attempt to drive his bullet, and he chose the pocket of Terry's shirt. It steadied him, gave him his old self-confidence to have found that target. His hand and his brain grew steady, and the thrill of the fighter's love of battle entered him.

"What sort of a target d'you want?" he asked.

"I'm not particular," said Hollis. "Anything will do for me—even a button!"

It jarred home to Slim—the very thought he had had a moment before. He felt his certainty waver, slip from him. Then the voice of Pollard boomed out at them:

"Keep them guns in their houses! You hear me talk? The first man that makes a move I'm going to drill! Slim, get back into the house. Terry, you damn meateater, git on down that hill!"

Terry did not move, but Slim Dugan stirred uneasily, turned, and said: "It's up to you, chief. But I'll see this through sooner or later!"

And not until then did Terry turn his horse and go down the hill without a backward look.



CHAPTER 29

There had been a profound reason behind the sudden turning of Terry Hollis's horse and his riding down the hill. For as he sat the saddle, quivering, he felt rising in him an all-controlling impulse that was new to him, a fierce and sudden passion.

It was joyous, free, terrible in its force—that wish to slay. The emotion had grown, held back by the very force of a mental thread of reason, until, at the very moment when the thread was about to fray and snap, and he would be flung into sudden action, the booming voice of Joe Pollard had cleared his mind as an acid clears a cloudy precipitate. He saw himself for the first time in several moments, and what he saw made him shudder.

And still in fear of himself he swung El Sangre and put him down the slope recklessly. Never in his life had he ridden as he rode in those first five minutes down the pitch of the hill. He gave El Sangre his head to pick his own way, and he confined his efforts to urging the great stallion along. The blood-bay went like the wind, passing up-jutting boulders with a swish of gravel knocked from his plunging hoofs against the rock.

Even in Terry's passion of self-dread he dimly appreciated the prowess of the horse, and when they shot onto the level going of the valley road, he called El Sangre out of the mad gallop and back to the natural pace, a gait as swinging and smooth as running water—yet still the road poured beneath them at the speed of an ordinary gallop. It was music to Terry Hollis, that matchless gait. He leaned and murmured to the pricking ears with that soft, gentle voice which horses love. The glorious head of El Sangre went up a little, his tail flaunted somewhat more proudly; from the quiver of his nostrils to the ringing beat of his black hoofs he bespoke his confidence that he bore the king of men on his back.

And the pride of the great horse brought back some of Terry's own waning self-confidence. His father had been up in him as he faced Slim Dugan, he knew. Once more he had escaped from the commission of a crime. But for how long would he succeed in dodging that imp of the perverse which haunted him?

It was like the temptation of a drug—to strike just once, and thereafter to be raised above himself, take to himself the power of evil which is greater than the power of good. The blow he struck at the sheriff had merely served to launch him on his way. To strike down was not now what he wanted, but to kill! To feel that once he had accomplished the destiny of some strong man, to turn a creature of mind and soul, ambition and hope, at a single stroke into so many pounds of flesh, useless, done for. What could be more glorious? What could be more terrible? And the desire to strike, as he had looked into the sneering face of Slim Dugan, had been almost overmastering.

Sooner or later he would strike that blow. Sooner or later he would commit the great and controlling crime. And the rest of his life would be a continual evasion of the law.

If they would only take him into their midst, the good and the law- abiding men of the mountains! If they would only accept him by word or deed and give him a chance to prove that he was honest! Even then the battle would be hard, against temptation; but they were too smugly sure that his downfall was certain. Twice they had rejected him without cause. How long would it be before they actually raised their hands against him? How long would it be before they violently put him in the class of his father?

Grinding his teeth, he swore that if that time ever came when they took his destiny into their own hands, he would make it a day to be marked in red all through the mountains!

The cool, fresh wind against his face blew the sullen anger away. And when he came close to the town, he was his old self.

A man on a tall gray, with the legs of speed and plenty of girth at the cinches, where girth means lung power, twisted out of a side trail and swung past El Sangre at a fast gallop. The blood-bay snorted and came hard against the bit in a desire to follow. On the range, when he led his wild band, no horse had ever passed El Sangre and hardly the voice of the master could keep him back now. Terry loosed him. He did not break into a gallop, but fled down the road like an arrow, and the gray came back to him slowly and surely until the rider twisted around and swore in surprise.

He touched his mount with the spurs; there was a fresh start from the gray, a lunge that kicked a little spurt of dust into the nostrils of El Sangre. He snorted it out. Terry released his head completely, and now, as though in scorn refusing to break into his sweeping gallop, El Sangre flung himself ahead to the full of his natural pace.

And the gray came back steadily. The town was shoving up at them at the end of the road more and more clearly. The rider of the gray began to curse. He was leaning forward, jockeying his horse, but still El Sangre hurled himself forward powerfully, smoothly. They passed the first shanty on the outskirts of the town with the red head of the stallion at the hip of the other. Before they straightened into the main street, El Sangre had shoved his nose past the outstretched head of the gray. Then the other rider jerked back on his reins with a resounding oath. Terry imitated; one call to El Sangre brought him back to a gentle amble.

"Going to sell this damned skate," declared the stranger, a lean-faced man of middle age with big, patient, kindly eyes. "If he can't make another hoss break out of a pace, he ain't worth keeping! But I'll tell a man that you got quite a hoss there, partner!"

"Not bad," admitted Terry modestly. "And the gray has pretty good points, it seems to me."

They drew the horses back to a walk.

"Ought to have. Been breeding for him fifteen years—and here I get him beat by a hoss that don't break out of a pace."

He swore again, but less violently and with less disappointment. He was beginning to run his eyes appreciatively over the superb lines of El Sangre. There were horses and horses, and he began to see that this was one in a thousand—or more.

"What's the strain in that stallion?" he asked.

"Mustang," answered Terry.

"Mustang? Man, man, he's close to sixteen hands!"

"Nearer fifteen three. Yes, he stands pretty high. Might call him a freak mustang, I guess. He reverts to the old source stock."

"I've heard something about that," nodded the other. "Once in a generation they say a mustang turns up somewhere on the range that breeds back to the old Arab. And that red hoss is sure one of 'em."

They dismounted at the hotel, the common hitching rack for the town, and the elder man held out his hand.

"I'm Jack Baldwin."

"Terry'll do for me, Mr. Baldwin. Glad to know you."

Baldwin considered his companion with a slight narrowing of the eyes. Distinctly this "Terry" was not the type to be wandering about the country known by his first name alone. There were reasons and reasons why men chose to conceal their family names in the mountains, however, and not all of them were bad. He decided to reserve judgment. Particularly since he noted a touch of similarity between the high head and the glorious lines of El Sangre and the young pride and strength of Terry himself. There was something reassuringly clean and frank about both horse and rider, and it pleased Baldwin.

They made their purchases together in the store.

"Where might you be working?" asked Baldwin.

"For Joe Pollard."

"Him?" There was a lifting of the eyebrows of Jack Baldwin. "What line?"

"Cutting wood, just now."

Baldwin shook his head.

"How Pollard uses so much help is more'n I can see. He's got a range back of the hills, I know, and some cattle on it; but he's sure a waster of good labor. Take me, now. I need a hand right bad to help me with the cows."

"I'm more or less under contract with Pollard," said Terry. He added: "You talk as if Pollard might be a queer sort."

Baldwin seemed to be disarmed by this frankness.

"Ain't you noticed anything queer up there? No? Well, maybe Pollard is all right. He's sort of a newcomer around here. That big house of his ain't more'n four or five years old. But most usually a man buys land and cattle around here before he builds him a big house. Well—Pollard is an open-handed cuss, I'll say that for him, and maybe they ain't anything in the talk that goes around."

What that talk was Terry attempted to discover, but he could not. Jack Baldwin was a cautious gossip.

Since they had finished buying, the storekeeper perched on the edge of his selling counter and began to pass the time of the day. It began with the usual preliminaries, invariable in the mountains.

"What's the news out your way?"

"Nothing much to talk about. How's things with you and your family?"

"Fair to middlin' and better. Patty had the croup and we sat up two nights firing up the croup kettle. Now he's better, but he still coughs terrible bad."

And so on until all family affairs had been exhausted. This is a formality. One must not rush to the heart of his news or he will mortally offend the sensitive Westerner.

This is the approved method. The storekeeper exemplified it, and having talked about nothing for ten minutes, quietly remarked that young Larrimer was out hunting a scalp, had been drinking most of the morning, and was now about the town boasting of what he intended to do.

"And what's more, he's apt to do it."

"Larrimer is a no-good young skunk," said Baldwin, with deliberate heat. "It's sure a crime when a boy that ain't got enough brains to fill a peanut shell can run over men just because he's spent his life learning how to handle firearms. He'll meet up with his finish one of these days."

"Maybe he will, maybe he won't," said the storekeeper, and spat with precision and remarkable power through the window beside him. "That's what they been saying for the last two years. Dawson come right down here to get him; but it was Dawson that was got. And Kennedy was called a good man with a gun—but Larrimer beat him to the draw and filled him plumb full of lead."

"I know," growled Baldwin. "Kept on shooting after Kennedy was down and had the gun shot out of his hand and was helpless. And yet they call that self-defense."

"We can't afford to be too particular about shootings," said the storekeeper. "Speaking personal, I figure that a shooting now and then lets the blood of the youngsters and gives 'em a new start. Kind of like to see it."

"But who's Larrimer after now?"

"A wild-goose chase, most likely. He says he's heard that the son of old Black Jack is around these parts, and that he's going to bury the outlaw's son after he's salted him away with lead."

"Black Jack's son! Is he around town?"

The tone sent a chill through Terry; it contained a breathless horror from which there was no appeal. In the eye of Jack Baldwin, fair-minded man though he was, Black Jack's son was judged and condemned as worthless before his case had been heard.

"I dunno," said the storekeeper; "but if Larrimer put one of Black Jack's breed under the ground, I'd call him some use to the town."

Jack Baldwin was agreeing fervently when the storekeeper made a violent signal.

"There's Larrimer now, and he looks all fired up."

Terry turned and saw a tall fellow standing in the doorway. He had been prepared for a youth; he saw before him a hardened man of thirty and more, gaunt-faced, bristling with the rough beard of some five or six days' growth, a thin, cruel, hawklike face.



CHAPTER 30

A moment later, from the side door which led from the store into the main body of the hotel, stepped the chunky form of Denver Pete, quick and light of foot as ever. He went straight to the counter and asked for matches, and as the storekeeper, still keeping half an eye upon the formidable figure of Larrimer, turned for the matches, Denver spoke softly from the side of his mouth to Terry—only in the lockstep line of the prison do they learn to talk in this manner—gauging the carrying power of the whisper with nice accuracy.

"That bird's after you. Crazy with booze in the head, but steady in the hand. One of two things. Clear out right now, or else say the word and I'll stay and help you get rid of him."

For the first time in his life fear swept over Terry—fear of himself compared with which the qualm he had felt after turning from Slim Dugan that morning had been nothing. For the second time in one day he was being tempted, and the certainty came to him that he would kill Larrimer. And what made that certainty more sure was the appearance of his nemesis, Denver Pete, in this crisis. As though, with sure scent for evil, Denver had come to be present and watch the launching of Terry into a career of crime. But it was not the public that Terry feared. It was himself. His moral determination was a dam which blocked fierce currents in him that were struggling to get free. And a bullet fired at Larrimer would be the thing that burst the dam and let the flood waters of self-will free. Thereafter what stood in his path would be crushed and swept aside.

He said to Denver: "This is my affair, not yours. Stand away, Denver. And pray for me."

A strange request. It shattered even the indomitable self-control of Denver and left him gaping.

Larrimer, having completed his survey of the dim interior of the store, stalked down upon them. He saw Terry for the first time, paused, and his bloodshot little eyes ran up and down the body of the stranger. He turned to the storekeeper, but still half of his attention was fixed upon Terry.

"Bill," he said, "you seen anything of a spavined, long-horned, no-good skunk named Hollis around town today?"

And Terry could see him wait, quivering, half in hopes that the stranger would show some anger at this denunciation.

"Ain't seen nobody by that name," said Bill mildly. "Maybe you're chasing a wild goose? Who told you they was a gent named Hollis around?"

"Black Jack's son," insisted Larrimer. "Wild-goose chase, hell! I was told he was around by a gent named—"

"These ain't the kind of matches I want!" cried Denver Pete, with a strangely loud-voiced wrath. "I don't want painted wood. How can a gent whittle one of these damned matches down to toothpick size? Gimme plain wood, will you?"

The storekeeper, wondering, made the exchange. Drunken Larrimer had roved on, forgetful of his unfinished sentence. For the very purpose of keeping that sentence unfinished, Denver Pete remained on the scene, edging toward the outskirts. Now was to come, in a single moment, both the temptation and the test of Terry Hollis, and well Denver knew that if Larrimer fell with a bullet in his body there would be an end of Terry Hollis in the world and the birth of a new soul—the true son of Black Jack!

"It's him that plugged Sheriff Minter," went on Larrimer. "I hear tell as how he got the sheriff from behind and plugged him. This town ain't a place for a man-killing houn' dog like young Black Jack, and I'm here to let him know it!"

The torrent of abuse died out in a crackle of curses. Terry Hollis stood as one stunned. Yet his hand stayed free of his gun.

"Suppose we go on to the hotel and eat?" he asked Jack Baldwin softly. "No use staying and letting that fellow deafen us with his oaths, is there?"

"Better than a circus," declared Baldwin. "Wouldn't miss it. Since old man Harkness died, I ain't heard cussing to match up with Larrimer's. Didn't know that he had that much brains."

It seemed that the fates were surely against Terry this day. Yet still he determined to dodge the issue. He started toward the door, taking care not to walk hastily enough to draw suspicion on him because of his withdrawal, but to the heated brain of Larrimer all things were suspicious. His long arm darted out as Terry passed him; he jerked the smaller man violently back.

"Wait a minute. I don't know you, kid. Maybe you got the information I want?"

"I'm afraid not."

Terry blinked. It seemed to him that if he looked again at that vicious, contracted face, his gun would slip into his hand of its own volition.

"Who are you?"

"A stranger in these parts," said Terry slowly, and he looked down at the floor.

He heard a murmur from the men at the other end of the room. He knew that small, buzzing sound. They were wondering at the calmness with which he "took water."

"So's Hollis a stranger in these parts," said Larrimer, facing his victim more fully. "What I want to know is about the gent that owns the red hoss in front of the store. Ever hear of him?"

Terry was silent. By a vast effort he was able to shake his head. It was hard, bitterly hard, but every good influence that had ever come into his life now stood beside him and fought with and for him—Elizabeth Cornish, the long and fictitious line of his Colby ancestors, Kate Pollard with her clear-seeing eyes. He saw her last of all. When the men were scorning him for the way he had avoided this battle, she, at least, would understand, and her understanding would be a mercy.

"Hollis is somewhere around," declared Larrimer, drawing back and biting his lip. "I know it, damn well. His hoss is standing out yonder. I know what'll fetch him. I'll shoot that hoss of his, and that'll bring him—if young Black Jack is half the man they say he is! I ain't out to shoot cowards—I want men!"

He strode to the door.

"Don't do it!" shouted Bill, the storekeeper.

"Shut up!" snapped Baldwin. "I know something. Shut up!"

That fierce, low voice reached the ear of Terry, and he understood that it meant Baldwin had judged him as the whole world judged him. After all, what difference did it make whether he killed or not? He was already damned as a slayer of men by the name of his father before him.

Larrimer had turned with a roar.

"What d'you mean by stopping me, Bill? What in hell d'you mean by it?"

With the brightness of the door behind him, his bearded face was wolfish.

"Nothing," quavered Bill, this torrent of danger pouring about him. "Except—that it ain't very popular around here—shooting hosses, Larrimer."

"Damn you and your ideas," said Larrimer. "I'm going to go my own way. I know what's best."

He reached the door, his hand went back to the butt of his revolver.

And then it snapped in Terry, that last restraint which had been at the breaking-point all this time. He felt a warmth run through him—the warmth of strength and the cold of a mysterious and evil happiness.

"Wait, Larrimer!"

The big man whirled as though he had heard a gun; there was a ring in the voice of Terry like the ring down the barrel of a shotgun after it has been cocked.

"You agin?" barked Larrimer.

"Me again. Larrimer, don't shoot the horse."

"Why not?"

"For the sake of your soul, my friend."

"Boys, ain't this funny? This gent is a sky-pilot, maybe?" He made a long stride back.

"Stop where you are!" cried Terry.

He stood like a soldier with his heels together, straight, trembling. And Larrimer stopped as though a blow had checked him.

"I may be your sky-pilot, Larrimer. But listen to sense. Do you really mean you'd shoot that red horse in front of the hotel?"

"Ain't you heard me say it?"

"Then the Lord pity you, Larrimer!"

Ordinarily Larrimer's gun would have been out long before, but the change from this man's humility of the moment before, his almost cringing meekness, to his present defiance was so startling that Larrimer was momentarily at sea.

"Damn my eyes," he remarked furiously, "this is funny, this is. Are you preaching at me, kid? What d'you mean by that? Eh?"

"I'll tell you why. Face me squarely, will you? Your head up, and your hands ready."

In spite of his rage and wonder, Larrimer instinctively obeyed, for the words came snapping out like military commands.

"Now I'll tell you. You manhunting cur, I'm going to send you to hell with your sins on your head. I'm going to kill you, Larrimer!"

It was so unexpected, so totally startling, that Larrimer blinked, raised his head, and laughed.

But the son of Black Jack tore away all thought of laughter.

"Larrimer, I'm Terry Hollis. Get your gun!"

The wide mouth of Larrimer writhed silently from mirth to astonishment, and then sinister rage. And though he was in the shadow against the door, Terry saw the slow gleam in the face of the tall man—then his hand whipped for the gun. It came cleanly out. There was no flap to his holster, and the sight had been filed away to give more oiled and perfect freedom to the draw. Years of patient practice had taught his muscles to reflex in this one motion with a speed that baffled the eye. Fast as light that draw seemed to those who watched, and the draw of Terry Hollis appeared to hang in midair. His hand wavered, then clutched suddenly, and they saw a flash of metal, not the actual motion of drawing the gun. Just that gleam of the barrel at his hip, hardly clear of the holster, and then in the dimness of the big room a spurt of flame and the boom of the gun.

There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of the room. Larrimer's gun had rattled on the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt arms as though he were appealing for help, leaped into the air, and fell heavily, with a force that vibrated the floor where Terry stood.

There was one heartbeat of silence.

Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the body of Larrimer.

To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.

"I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger work in this town," he said. "But I'm going to leave it to you gentlemen to take the carrion away. Shorty, I'm going back to the house. Are you ready to ride that way?"

When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward, they found a neat, circular splotch of purple exactly placed between the eyes.



CHAPTER 31

The first thing the people in Pollard's big house knew of the return of the two was a voice singing faintly and far off in the stable—they could hear it because the door to the big living room was opened. And Kate Pollard, who had been sitting idly at the piano, stood up suddenly and looked around her. It did not interrupt the crap game of the four at one side of the room, where they kneeled in a close circle. But it brought big Pollard himself to the door in time to meet Denver Pete as the latter hurried in.

When Denver was excited he talked very nearly as softly as he walked. And his voice tonight was like a contented humming.

"It worked," was all he said aside to Pollard as he came through the door. They exchanged silent grips of the hands. Then Kate drew down on them; as if a mysterious; signal had been passed to them by the subdued entrance of Denver, the four rose at the side of the room.

It was Pollard who forced him to talk.

"What happened?"

"A pretty little party," said Denver. His purring voice was so soft that to hear him the others instantly drew close. Kate Pollard stood suddenly before him.

"Terry Hollis has done something," she said. "Denver, what has he done?"

"Him? Nothing much. To put it in his own words, he's just played scavenger for the town—and he's done it in a way they won't be forgetting for a good long day.

"Denver!"

"Well? No need of acting up, Kate."

"Who was it?"

"Ever meet young Larrimer?"

She shuddered. "Yes. A—beast of a man."

"Sure. Worse'n a beast, maybe. Well, he's carrion now, to use Terry's words again."

"Wait a minute," cut in big blond Phil Marvin. Don't spoil the story for Terry. But did he really do for Larrimer? Larrimer was a neat one with a gun—no good otherwise."

"Did he do for Larrimer?" echoed Denver in his purring voice. "Oh, man, man! Did he do for Larrimer? And I ain't spoiling his story. He won't talk about it. Wouldn't open his face about it all the way home. A pretty neat play, boys. Larrimer was looking for a rep, and he wanted to make it on Black Jack's son. Came tearing in.

"At first Terry tried to sidestep him. Made me weak inside for a minute because I thought he was going to take water. Then he got riled a bit and then—whang! It was all over. Not a body shot. No, boys, nothing clumsy and amateurish like that, because a man may live to empty his gun at you after he's been shot through the body. This young Hollis, pals, just ups and drills Larrimer clean between the eyes. If you'd measured it off with a ruler, you couldn't have hit exact center any better'n he done. Then he walks up and stirs Larrimer with his toe to make sure he was dead. Cool as hell."

"You lie!" cried the girl suddenly.

They whirled at her, and found her standing and flaming at them.

"You hear me say it, Kate," said Denver, losing a little of his calm.

"He wasn't as cool as that—after killing a man. He wasn't."

"All right, honey. Don't you hear him singing out there in the stable? Does that sound as if he was cut up much?"

"Then you've made him a murderer—you, Denver, and you, Dad. Oh, if they's a hell, you're going to travel there for this! Both of you!"

"As if we had anything to do with it!" exclaimed Denver innocently. "Besides, it wasn't murder. It was plain self-defense. Nothing but that. Three witnesses to swear to it. But, my, my—you should hear that town rave. They thought nobody could beat Larrimer."

The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her hand, brooding. It was all impossible—it could not be. Yet there was Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis singing as he cared for El Sangre.

She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close at hand. Presently the singing rang out more clearly. He had stepped out of the barn.

Oh, I am a friar of orders gray, Through hill and valley I take my way. My long bead roll I merrily chant; Wherever I wander no money I want!

And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them in greeting. It was impossible—more impossible than ever.

He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her with that stain in his soul?

And this was what Terry said to her: "I'm going to teach El Sangre to let you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you'd been with us going down the hill this morning!"

No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed larger and brighter—it was no longer possible for her to look deeply into it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other differences.

He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was an air of uneasy, alert happiness—as of one who steals a few perfect moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her, and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.

"Terry Hollis, what have you done? You're lookin' me in the eye, but you ought to be hangin' your head. You've done murder! Murder! Murder!"

She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.

He was laughing down at her—actually laughing, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her; she became afraid for the first time in her life.

"A little formality with a gun," he said calmly. "A dog got in my way, Kate—a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm."

"Ah, Terry, I know everything. I've heard Denver tell it. I know it was a man, Terry."

He insisted carelessly. "By the Lord, Kate, only a dog—and a mad dog at that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn't worth talking about."

She drew away from him. "Terry, God pity you. I pity you," she went on hurriedly and faintly. "But you ain't the same any more, Terry. I—I'm almost afraid of you!"

He tried laughingly to stop her, and in a sudden burst of hysterical terror she fled from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come after her, light as a shadow. And the shadow leaped between her and the door; the force of her rush drove her into his arms.

In the distance she could hear the others laughing—they understood such a game as this, and enjoyed it with all their hearts. Ah, the fools!

He held her lightly, his fingertips under her elbows. For all the delicacy of that touch, she knew that if she attempted to flee, the grip would be iron. He would hold her where she was until he was through talking to her.

"Don't you see what I've done?" he was saying rapidly. "You wanted to drive me out last night. You said I didn't fit—that I didn't belong up here. Well, Kate, I started out today to make myself fit to belong to this company of fine fellows."

He laughed a little; if it were not real mirth, at least there was a fierce quality of joy in his voice.

"You see, I decided that if I went away I'd be lonely. Particularly, I'd be lonely as the devil, Kate, for you!"

"You've murdered to make yourself one—of us?"

"Tush, Kate. You exaggerate entirely. Do you know what I've really done? Why, I've wakened; I've come to my senses. After all, there was no other place for me to go. I tried the world of good, ordinary working people. I asked them to let me come in and prove my right to be one of them. They discharged me when I worked honestly on the range. They sent their professional gunmen and bullies after me. And then—I reached the limit of my endurance, Kate, and I struck back. And the mockery of it all is this—that though they have struck me repeatedly and I have endured it, I—having struck back a single time—am barred from among them forever. Let it be so!"

"Hush, Terry. I—I'm going to think of ways!"

"You couldn't. Last night—yes. Today I'm a man—and I'm free. And freedom is the sweetest thing in the world. There's no place else for me to go. This is my world. You're my queen. I've won my spurs; I'll use them in your service, Kate."

"Stop, Terry!"

"By the Lord, I will, though! I'm happy—don't you see? And I'm going to be happier. I'm going to work my way along until I can tell you—that I love you, Kate—that you're the daintiest body of fire and beauty and temper and gentleness and wisdom and fun that was ever crowned with the name of a woman. And—"

But under the rapid fire of his words there was a touch of hardness— mockery, perhaps. She drew back, and he stepped instantly aside. She went by him through the door with bowed head. And Terry, closing it after her, heard the first sob.



CHAPTER 32

It was as if a gate which had hitherto been closed against him in the Pollard house were now opened. They no longer held back from Terry, but admitted him freely to their counsels. But the first person to whom he spoke was Slim Dugan. There was a certain nervousness about Slim this evening, and a certain shame. For he felt that in the morning, to an extent, he had backed down from the quarrel with young Black Jack. The killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die; for he felt that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gunplay. And everyone knew it.

The moment there was silence the son of Black Jack went straight to Slim Dugan.

"Slim," he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "a fellow isn't himself before noon. I've been thinking over that little trouble we had this morning, and I've made up my mind that if there were any fault it was mine for taking a joke too seriously. At any rate, if it's agreeable to you, Slim, I'd like to shake hands and call everything square. But if there's going to be any ill will, let's have it out right now."

Slim Dugan wrung the hand of Terry without hesitation.

"If you put it that way," he said cordially, "I don't mind saying that I was damned wrong to heave that stone at the hoss. And I apologize, Terry."

And so everything was forgotten. Indeed, where there had been enmity before, there was now friendship. And there was a breath of relief drawn by every member of the gang. The peacemaking tendency of Hollis had more effect on the others than a dozen killings. They already granted that he was formidable. They now saw that he was highly desirable also.

Dinner that night was a friendly affair, except that Kate stayed in her room with a headache. Johnny the Chinaman smuggled a tray to her. Oregon Charlie went to the heart of matters with one of his rare speeches:

"You hear me talk, Hollis. She's mad because you've stepped off. She'll get over it all right."

Oregon Charlie had a right to talk. It was an open secret that he had loved Kate faithfully ever since he joined the gang. But apparently Terry Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider; the mutter of his hoofs swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.

"It's Sandy," he fired over his shoulder in explanation.

A weary-looking fellow came into the room, swinging his hat to knock the dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken, and no more.

"News?" said Pollard.

"News," grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.

Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvellous expedition, keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk.

"First thing," he said now—and utter silence spread around the table as he began to talk—"first thing is that McGuire is coming. I seen him on the trail, cut to the left and took the short way. He ought to be loping in almost any minute."

Terry saw the others looking straight at Pollard; the leader was thoughtful for a moment.

"Is he coming with a gang, Sandy?"

"Nope—alone."

"He was always a nervy cuss. Someday—"

He left the sentence unfinished. Denver had risen noiselessly.

"I'm going to beat it for my bunk," he announced. "Let me know when the sheriff is gone."

"Sit where you are, Denver. McGuire ain't going to lay hands on you."

"Sure he ain't," agreed Denver. "But I ain't partial to having guys lay eyes on me, neither. Some of you can go out and beat up trouble. I like to stay put."

And he glided out of the room with no more noise than a sliding shadow. He had hardly disappeared when a heavy hand beat at the door.

"That's McGuire," announced Pollard. "Let him in, Phil." So saying, he twitched his gun out of the holster, spun the cylinder, and dropped it back.

"Don't try nothing till you see me put my hand into my beard, boys. He don't mean much so long as he's come alone."

Marvin drew back the door. Terry saw a man with shoulders of martial squareness enter. And there was a touch of the military in his brisk step and the curt nod he sent at Marvin as he passed the latter. He had not taken off his sombrero. It cast a heavy shadow across the upper part of his worn, sad face.

"Evening, sheriff," came from Pollard, and a muttered chorus from the others repeated the greeting. The sheriff cast his glance over them like a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture.

"Evening, boys."

"Sit down, McGuire."

"I'm only staying a minute. I'll talk standing." It was a declaration of war.

"I guess this is the first time I been up here, Pollard?"

"The very first, sheriff."

"Well, if I been kind of neglectful, it ain't that I'm not interested in you-all a heap!"

He brought it out with a faint smile; there was no response to that mirth.

"Matter of fact, I been keeping my eye on you fellows right along. Now, I ain't up here to do no accusing. I'm up here to talk to you man to man. They's been a good many queer things happen. None of 'em in my county, mind you, or I might have done some talking to you before now. But they's been a lot of queer things happen right around in the mountains; and some of 'em has traced back kind of close to Joe Pollard's house as a starting point. I ain't going to go any further. If I'm wrong, they ain't any harm done; if I'm right, you know what I mean. But I tell you this, boys— we're a long-sufferin' lot around these parts, but they's some things that we don't stand for, and one of 'em that riles us particular much is when a gent that lays out to be a regular hardworking rancher—even if he ain't got much of a ranch to talk about and work about—takes mankillers under their wings. It ain't regular, and it ain't popular around these parts. I guess you know what I mean."

Terry expected Pollard to jump to his feet. But there was no such response. The other men stared down at the table, their lips working. Pollard alone met the eye of the sheriff.

The sheriff changed the direction of his glance. Instantly, it fell on Terry and stayed there.

"You're the man I mean; you're Terry Hollis, Black Jack's son?"

Terry imitated the others and did not reply.

"Oh, they ain't any use beating about the bush. You got Black Jack's blood in you. That's plain. I remember your old man well enough."

Terry rose slowly from his chair.

"I think I'm not disputing that, sheriff. As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of my father."

"I think you are," said the sheriff gravely. "I think you are—damned proud of him. So proud you might even figure on imitating what he done in the old days."

"Perhaps," said Terry. The imp of the perverse was up in him now, urging him on.

"Step soft, sheriff," cried Pollard suddenly, as though he sensed a crisis of which the others were unaware. "Terry, keep hold on yourself!"

The sheriff waved the cautionary advice away.

"My nerves are tolerable good, Pollard," he said coldly. "The kid ain't scaring me none. And now hark to me, Black Jack. You've got away with two gents already—two that's known, I mean. Minter was one and Larrimer was two. Both times it was a square break. But I know your kind like a book. You're going to step over the line pretty damn pronto, and when you do, I'm going to get you, friend, as sure as the sky is blue! You ain't going to do what your dad done before you. I'll tell you why. In the old days the law was a joke. But it's tolerable strong now. You hear me talk—get out of these here parts and stay out. We don't want none of your kind."

There was a flinching of the men about the table. They had seen the tigerish suddenness with which Terry's temper could flare—they had received an object lesson that morning. But to their amazement he remained perfectly cool under fire. He sauntered a little closer to the sheriff.

"I'll tell you, McGuire," he said gently. "Your great mistake is in talking too much. You've had a good deal of success, my friend. So much that your head is turned. You're quite confident that no one will invade your special territory; and you keep your sympathy for neighboring counties. You pity the sheriffs around you. Now listen to me. You've branded me as a criminal in advance. And I'm not going to disappoint you. I'm going to try to live up to your high hopes. And what I do will be done right in your county, my friend. I'm going to make the sheriffs pity you, McGuire. I'm going to make your life a small bit of hell. I'm going to keep you busy. And now—get out! And before you judge the next man that crosses your path, wait for the advice of twelve good men and true. You need advice, McGuire. You need it to beat hell! Start on your way!"

His calmness was shaken a little toward the end of this speech and his voice, at the close, rang sharply at McGuire. The latter considered him from beneath frowning brows for a moment and then, without another word, without a glance to the others and a syllable of adieu, turned and walked slowly, thoughtfully, out of the room. Terry walked back to his place. As he sat down, he noticed that every eye was upon him, worried.

"I'm sorry that I've had to do so much talking," he said. "And I particularly apologize to you, Pollard. But I'm tired of being hounded. As a matter of fact, I'm now going to try to play the part of the hound myself. Action, boys; action is what we must have, and action right in this county under the nose of the complacent McGuire!"



CHAPTER 33

There was no exuberant joy to meet this suggestion. McGuire had, as a matter of fact, made his territory practically crime-proof for so long that men had lost interest in planning adventures within the sphere of his authority. It seemed to the four men of Pollard's gang a peculiar folly to cast a challenge in the teeth of the formidable sheriff himself. Even Pollard was shaken and looked to Denver. But that worthy, who had returned from the door where he was stationed during the presence of the sheriff, remained in his place smiling down at his hands. He, for one, seemed oddly pleased.

In the meantime Sandy was setting forth his second and particularly interesting news item.

"You-all know Lewison?" he asked.

"The sour old grouch," affirmed Phil Marvin. "Sure, we know him."

"I know him, too," said Sandy. "I worked for the tenderfoot that he skinned out of the ranch. And then I worked for Lewison. If they's anything good about Lewison, you'd need a spyglass to find it, and then it wouldn't be fit to see. His wife couldn't live with him; he drove his son off and turned him into a drunk; and he's lived his life for his coin."

"Which he ain't got much to show for it," remarked Marvin. "He lives like a starved dog."

"And that's just why he's got the coin," said Sandy. "He lives on what would make a dog sick and his whole life he's been saving every cent he's made. He gives his wife one dress every three years till she died. That's how tight he is. But he's sure got the money. Told everybody his kid run off with all his savings. That's a lie. His kid didn't have the guts or the sense to steal even what was coming to him for the work he done for the old miser. Matter of fact, he's got enough coin saved—all gold—to break the back of a mule. That's a fact! Never did no investing, but turned everything he made into gold and put it away."

"How do you know?" This from Denver.

"How does a buzzard smell a dead cow?" said Sandy inelegantly. "I ain't going to tell you how I smell out the facts about money. Wouldn't be any use to you if you knew the trick. The facts is these: he sold his ranch. You know that?"

"Sure, we know that."

"And you know he wouldn't take nothing but gold coin paid down at the house?"

"That so?"

"It sure is! Now the point's this. He had all his gold in his own private safe at home."

Denver groaned.

"I know, Denver," nodded Sandy. "Easy pickings for you; but I didn't find all this out till the other day. Never even knew he had a safe in his house. Not till he has 'em bring out a truck from town and he ships the safe and everything in it to the bank. You see, he sold out his own place and he's going to another that he bought down the river. Well, boys, here's the dodge. That safe of his is in the bank tonight, guarded by old Lewison himself and two gunmen he's hired for the job. Tomorrow he starts out down the river with the safe on a big wagon, and he'll have half a dozen guards along with him. Boys, they's going to be forty thousand dollars in that safe! And the minute she gets out of the county—because old McGuire will guard it to the boundary line—we can lay back in the hills and—"

"You done enough planning, Sandy," broke in Joe Pollard. "You've smelled out the loot. Leave it to us to get it. Did you say forty thousand?"

And on every face around the table Terry saw the same hunger and the same yellow glint of the eyes. It would be a big haul, one of the biggest, if not the very biggest, Pollard had ever attempted.

Of the talk that followed, Terry heard little, because he was paying scant attention. He saw Joe Pollard lie back in his chair with squinted eyes and run over a swift description of the country through which the trail of the money would lead. The leader knew every inch of the mountains, it seemed. His memory was better than a map; in it was jotted down every fallen log, every boulder, it seemed. And when his mind was fixed on the best spot for the holdup, he sketched his plan briefly.

To this man and to that, parts were assigned in brief. There would be more to say in the morning about the details. And every man offered suggestions. On only one point were they agreed. This was a sum of money for which they could well afford to spill blood. For such a prize as this they could well risk making the countryside so hot for themselves that they would have to leave Pollard's house and establish headquarters elsewhere. Two shares to Pollard and one to each of his men, including Sandy, would make the total loot some four thousand dollars and more per man. And in the event that someone fell in the attempt, which was more than probable, the share for the rest would be raised to ten thousand for Pollard and five thousand for each of the rest. Terry saw cold glances pass the rounds, and more than one dwelt upon him. He was the last to join; if there were to be a death in this affair, he would be the least missed of all.

A sharp order from Pollard terminated the conference and sent his men to bed, with Pollard setting the example. But Terry lingered behind and called back Denver.

"There is one point," he said when they were alone, "that it seems to me the chief has overlooked."

"Talk up, kid," grinned Denver Pete. "I seen you was thinking. It sure does me good to hear you talk. What's on your mind? Where was Joe wrong?"

"Not wrong, perhaps. But he overlooked this fact: tonight the safe is guarded by three men only; tomorrow it will be guarded by six."

Denver stared, and then blinked.

"You mean, try the safe right in town, inside the old bank? Son, you don't know the gents in this town. They sleep with a gat under every head and ears that hear a pin drop in the next room—right while they're snoring. They dream about fighting and they wake up ready to shoot."

Terry smiled at this outburst.

"How long has it been since there was a raid on McGuire's town?"

"Dunno. Don't remember anybody being that foolish"

"Then it's been so long that it'll give us a chance. It's been so long that the three men on guard tonight will be half asleep."

"I dunno but you're right. Why didn't you speak up in company? I'll call the chief and—"

"Wait," said Terry, laying a hand on the round, hard-muscled shoulder of the yegg. "I had a purpose in waiting. Seven men are too many to take into a town."

"Eh?"

"Two men might surprise three. But seven men are more apt to be surprised."

"Two ag'in' three ain't such bad odds, pal. But—the first gun that pops, we'll have the whole town on our backs."

"Then we'll have to do it without shooting. You understand, Denver?"

Denver scratched his head. Plainly he was uneasy; plainly, also, he was more and more fascinated by the idea.

"You and me to turn the trick alone?" he whispered out of the side of his mouth in a peculiar, confidentially guilty way that was his when he was excited. "Kid, I begin to hear the old Black Jack talk in you! I begin to hear him talk! I knew it would come!"



CHAPTER 34

An hour's ride brought them to the environs of the little town. But it was already nearly the middle of night and the village was black; whatever life waked at that hour had been drawn into the vortex of Pedro's. And Pedro's was a place of silence. Terry and Denver skirted down the back of the town and saw the broad windows of Pedro's, against which passed a moving silhouette now and again, but never a voice floated out to them.

Otherwise the town was dead. They rode until they were at the other extremity of the main street. Here, according to Denver, was the bank which had never in its entire history been the scene of an attempted raid. They threw the reins of their horses after drawing almost perilously close.

"Because if we get what we want," said Terry, "it will be too heavy to carry far."

And Denver agreed, though they had come so close that from the back of the bank it must have been possible to make out the outlines of the horses. The bank itself was a broad, dumpy building with adobe walls, whose corners had been washed and rounded by time to shapelessness. The walls angled in as they rose; the roof was flat. As for the position, it could not have been worse. A dwelling abutted on either side of the bank. The second stories of those dwellings commanded the roof of the bank; and the front and back porches commanded the front and back entrances of the building.

The moment they had dismounted, Terry and Denver stood a while motionless. There was no doubt, even before they approached nearer, about the activity and watchfulness of the guards who took care of the new deposit in the bank. Across the back wall of the building drifted a shadowy outline—a guard marching steadily back and forth and keeping sentry watch.

"A stiff job, son," muttered Denver. "I told you these birds wouldn't sleep with more'n one eye; and they's a few that's got 'em both open."

But there was no wavering in Terry. The black stillness of the night; the soundless, slowly moving figure across the wall of the building; the hush, the stars, and the sense of something to be done stimulated him, filled him with a giddy happiness such as he had never known before. Crime? It was no crime to Terry Hollis, but a great and delightful game.

Suddenly he regretted the very presence of Denver Pete. He wanted to be alone with this adventure, match his cunning and his strength against whoever guarded the money of old Lewison, the miser.

"Stay here," he whispered in the ear of Denver. "Keep quiet. I'm going to slip over there and see what's what. Be patient. It may take a long time."

Denver nodded.

"Better let me come along. In case—"

"Your job is opening that safe; my job is to get you to it in safety and get you away again with the stuff." Denver shrugged his shoulders. It was much in the method of famous old Black Jack himself. There were so many features of similarity between the methods of the boy and his father that it seemed to Denver that the ghost of the former man had stepped into the body of his son.

In the meantime Terry faded into the dark. His plan of approach was perfectly simple. The house to the right of the bank was painted blue. Against that dark background no figure stood out clearly. Instead of creeping close to the ground to get past the guard at the rear of the building, he chose his time when the watcher had turned from the nearest end of his beat and was walking in the opposite direction. The moment that happened, Terry strode forward as lightly and rapidly as possible.

Luckily the ground was quite firm. It had once been planted with grass, and though the grass had died, its roots remained densely enough to form a firm matting, and there was no telltale crunching of the sand underfoot. Even so, some slight sound made the guard pause abruptly in the middle of his walk and whirl toward Terry. Instead of attempting to hide by dropping down to the ground, it came to Terry that the least motion in the dark would serve to make him visible. He simply halted at the same moment that the guard halted and trusted to the dark background of the house which was now beside him to make him invisible. Apparently he was justified. After a moment the guard turned and resumed his pacing, and Terry slipped on into the narrow walk between the bank and the adjoining house on the right.

He had hoped for a side window. There was no sign of one. Nothing but the sheer, sloping adobe wall, probably of great thickness, and burned to the density of soft stone. So he came to the front of the building, and so doing, almost ran into a second guard, who paced down the front of the bank just as the first kept watch over the rear entrance. Terry flattened himself against the side wall and held his breath. But the guard had seen nothing and, turning again at the end of his beat, went back in the opposite direction, a tall, gaunt man—so much Terry could make out even in the dark, and his heel fell with the heaviness of age. Perhaps this was Lewison himself.

The moment he was turned, Terry peered around the corner at the front of the building. There were two windows, one close to his corner and one on the farther side of the door. Both were lighted, but the farther one so dimly that it was apparent the light came from one source, and that source directly behind the window nearest Terry. He ventured one long, stealthy pace, and peered into the window.

As he had suspected, the interior of the bank was one large room. Half of it was fenced off with steel bars that terminated in spikes at the top as though, ludicrously, they were meant to keep one from climbing over. Behind this steel fencing were the safes of the bank. Outside the fence at a table, with a lamp between them, two men were playing cards. And the lamplight glinted on the rusty old safe which stood a little at one side.

Certainly old Lewison was guarding his money well. The hopes of Terry disappeared, and as Lewison was now approaching the far end of his beat, Terry glided back into the walk between the buildings and crouched there. He needed time and thought sadly.

As far as he could make out, the only two approaches to the bank, front and rear, were thoroughly guarded. Not only that, but once inside the bank, one would encounter the main obstacle, which consisted of two heavily armed men sitting in readiness at the table. If there were any solution to the problem, it must be found in another examination of the room.

Again the tall old man reached the end of his beat nearest Terry, turned with military precision and went back. Terry slipped out and was instantly at the window again. All was as before. One of the guards had laid down his cards to light a cigarette, and dense clouds of smoke floated above his head. That partial obscurity annoyed Terry. It seemed as if the luck were playing directly against him. However, the smoke began to clear rapidly. When it had mounted almost beyond the strongest inner circle of the lantern light, it rose with a sudden impetus, as though drawn up by an electric fan. Terry wondered at it, and squinted toward the ceiling, but the ceiling was lost in shadow.

He returned to his harborage between the two buildings for a fresh session of thought. And then his idea came to him. Only one thing could have sucked that straight upward so rapidly, and that was either a fan— which was ridiculous—or else a draught of air passing through an opening in the ceiling.

Unquestionably that was the case. Two windows, small as they were, would never serve adequately to ventilate the big single room of the bank. No doubt there was a skylight in the roof of the building and another aperture in the floor of the loft.

At least that was the supposition upon which he must act, or else not act at all. He went back as he had come, passed the rear guard easily, and found Denver unmoved beside the heads Of the horses.

"Denver," he said, "we've got to get to the roof of that bank, and the only way we can reach it is through the skylight."

"Skylight?" echoed Denver. "Didn't know there was one." "There has to be," said Terry, with surety. "Can you force a door in one of those houses so we can get to the second story of one of 'em and drop to the roof?"

"Force nothing," whispered Denver. "They don't know what locks on doors mean around here."

And he was right.

They circled in a broad detour and slipped onto the back porch of the blue house; the guard at the rear of the bank was whistling softly as he walked.

"Instead of watchdogs they keep doors with rusty hinges," said Denver as he turned the knob, and the door gave an inch inward. "And I dunno which is worst. But watch this, bo!"

And he began to push the door slowly inward. There was never a slackening or an increase in the speed with which his hand travelled. It took him a full five minutes to open the door a foot and a half. They slipped inside, but Denver called Terry back as the latter began to feel his way across the kitchen.

"Wait till I close this door."

"But why?" whispered Terry.

"Might make a draught—might wake up one of these birds. And there you are. That's the one rule of politeness for a burglar, Terry. Close the doors after you!"

And the door was closed with fully as much caution and slowness as had been used when it was opened. Then Denver took the lead again. He went across the kitchen as though he could see in the dark, and then among the tangle of chairs in the dining room beyond. Terry followed in his wake, taking care to step, as nearly as possible, in the same places. But for all that, Denver continually turned in an agony of anger and whispered curses at the noisy clumsiness of his companion—yet to Terry it seemed as though both of them were not making a sound.

The stairs to the second story presented a difficult climb. Denver showed him how to walk close to the wall, for there the weight of their bodies would act with less leverage on the boards and there would be far less chance of causing squeaks. Even then the ascent was not noiseless. The dry air had warped the timber sadly, and there was a continual procession of murmurs underfoot as they stole to the top of the stairs.

To Terry, his senses growing superhumanly acute as they entered more and more into the heart of their danger, it seemed that those whispers of the stairs might serve to waken a hundred men out of sound sleep; in reality they were barely audible.

In the hall a fresh danger met them. A lamp hung from the ceiling, the flame turned down for the night. And by that uneasy light Terry made out the face of Denver, white, strained, eager, and the little bright eyes forever glinting back and forth. He passed a side mirror and his own face was dimly visible. It brought him erect with a squeak of the flooring that made Denver whirl and shake his fist.

For what Terry had seen was the same expression that had been on the face of his companion—the same animal alertness, the same hungry eagerness. But the fierce gesture of Denver brought him back to the work at hand.

There were three rooms on the side of the hall nearest the bank. And every door was closed. Denver tried the nearest door first, and the opening was done with the same caution and slowness which had marked the opening of the back door of the house. He did not even put his head through the opening, but presently the door was closed and Denver returned.

"Two," he whispered.

He could only have told by hearing the sounds of two breathing; Terry wondered quietly. The man seemed possessed of abnormal senses. It was strange to see that bulky, burly, awkward body become now a sensitive organism, possessed of a dangerous grace in the darkness.

The second door was opened in the same manner. Then the third, and in the midst of the last operation a man coughed. Instinctively Terry reached for the handle of his gun, but Denver went on gradually closing the door as if nothing had happened. He came back to Terry.

"Every room got sleepers in it," he said. "And the middle room has got a man who's awake. We'll have to beat it."

"We'll stay where we are," said Terry calmly, "for thirty minutes—by guess. That'll give him time to go asleep. Then we'll go through one of those rooms and drop to the roof of the bank."

The yegg cursed softly. "Are you trying to hang me?" he gasped.

"Sit down," said Terry. "It's easier to wait that way."

And they sat cross-legged on the floor of the hall. Once the springs of a bed creaked as someone turned in it heavily. Once there was a voice—one of the sleepers must have spoken without waking. Those two noises, and no more, and yet they remained for what seemed two hours to Terry, but what he knew could not be more than twenty minutes.

"Now," he said to Denver, "we start."

"Through one of them rooms and out the windows—without waking anybody up?"

"You can do it. And I'll do it because I have to. Go on."

He heard the teeth of Denver grit, as though the yegg were being driven on into this madcap venture merely by a pride which would not allow him to show less courage—even rash courage—than his companion.

The door opened—Denver went inside and was soaked up—a shadow among shadows. Terry followed and stepped instantly into the presence of the sleeper. He could tell it plainly. There was no sound of breathing, though no doubt that was plain to the keen ear of Denver—but it was something more than sound or sight. It was like feeling a soul—that impalpable presence in the night. A ghostly and a thrilling thing to Terry Hollis.

Now, against the window on the farther side of the room, he made out the dim outline of Denver's chunky shoulders and shapeless hat. Luckily the window was open to its full height. Presently Terry stood beside Denver and they looked down. The roof of the bank was only some four feet below them, but it was also a full three feet in distance from the side of the house. Terry motioned the yegg back and began to slip through the window. It was a long and painful process, for at any moment a button might catch or his gun scrape—and the least whisper would ruin everything. At length, he hung from his arms at full length. Glancing down, he faintly saw Lewison turn at the end of his beat. Why did not the fool look up?

With that thought he drew up his feet, secured a firm purchase against the side of the house, raised himself by the ledge, and then flung himself out into the air with the united effort of arms and legs.

He let himself go loose and relaxed in the air, shot down, and felt the roof take his weight lightly, landing on his toes. He had not only made the leap, but he had landed a full foot and a half in from the edge of the roof.

Compared with the darkness of the interior of the house, everything on the outside was remarkably light now. He could see Denver at the window shaking his head. Then the professional slipped over the sill with practiced ease, dangled at arm's length, and flung himself out with a quick thrust of his feet against the wall.

The result was that while his feet were flung away far enough and to spare, the body of Denver inclined forward. He seemed bound to strike the roof with his feet and then drop head first into the alley below. Terry set his teeth with a groan, but as he did so, Denver whirled in the air like a cat. His body straightened, his feet barely secured a toehold on the edge of the roof. The strong arm of Terry jerked him in to safety.

For a moment they stood close together, Denver panting.

He was saying over and over again: "Never again. I ain't any acrobat, Black Jack!"

That name came easily on his lips now.

Once on the roof it was simple enough to find what they wanted. There was a broad skylight of dark green glass propped up a foot or more above the level of the rest of the flat roof. Beside it Terry dropped upon his knees and pushed his head under the glass. All below was pitchy-black, but he distinctly caught the odor of Durham tobacco smoke.



CHAPTER 35

That scent of smoke was a clear proof that there was an open way through the loft to the room of the bank below them. But would the opening be large enough to admit the body of a man? Only exploring could show that. He sat back on the roof and put on the mask with which the all-thoughtful Denver had provided him. A door banged somewhere far down the street, loudly. Someone might be making a hurried and disgusted exit from Pedro's. He looked quietly around him. After his immersion in the thick darkness of the house, the outer night seemed clear and the stars burned low through the thin mountain air. Denver's face was black under the shadow of his hat.

"How are you, kid—shaky?" he whispered.

Shaky? It surprised Terry to feel that he had forgotten about fear. He had been wrapped in a happiness keener than anything he had known before. Yet the scheme was far from accomplished. The real danger was barely beginning. Listening keenly, he could hear the sand crunch underfoot of the watcher who paced in front of the building; one of the cardplayers laughed from the room below—a faint, distant sound.

"Don't worry about me," he told Denver, and, securing a strong fingerhold on the edge of the ledge, he dropped his full length into the darkness under the skylight.

His tiptoes grazed the floor beneath, and letting his fingers slide off their purchase, he lowered himself with painful care so that his heels might not jar on the flooring. Then he held his breath—but there was no creaking of the loft floor.

That made the adventure more possible. An ill-laid floor would have set up a ruinous screeching as he moved, however carefully, across it. Now he whispered up to Denver. The latter instantly slid down and Terry caught the solid bulk of the man under the armpits and lowered him carefully.

"A rotten rathole," snarled Denver to his companion in that inimitable, guarded whisper. "How we ever coming back this way—in a hurry?"

It thrilled Terry to hear that appeal—an indirect surrendering of the leadership to him. Again he led the way, stealing toward a ghost of light that issued upward from the center of the floor. Presently he could look down through it.

It was an ample square, a full three feet across. Below, and a little more than a pace to the side, was the table of the cardplayers. As nearly as he could measure, through the misleading wisps and drifts of cigarette smoke, the distance to the floor was not more than ten feet—an easy drop for a man hanging by his fingers.

Denver came to his side, silent as a snake.

"Listen," whispered Terry, cupping a hand around his lips and leaning close to the ear of Denver so that the least thread of sound would be sufficient. "I'm going to cover those two from this place. When I have them covered, you slip through the opening and drop to the floor. Don't stand still, but softfoot it over to the wall. Then cover them with your gun while I come down. The idea is this. Outside that window there's a second guard walking up and down. He can look through and see the table where they're playing, but he can't see the safe against the wall. As long as he sees those two sitting there playing their cards, he'll be sure that everything is all right. Well, Denver, he's going to keep on seeing them sitting at their game—but in the meantime you're going to make your preparations for blowing the safe. Can you do it? Is your nerve up to it?"

Even the indomitable Denver paused before answering. The chances of success in this novel game were about one in ten. Only shame to be outbraved by his younger companion and pupil made him nod and mutter his assent.

That mutter, strangely, was loud enough to reach to the room below. Terry saw one of the men look up sharply, and at the same moment he pulled his gun and shoved it far enough through the gap for the light to catch on its barrel.

"Sit tight!" he ordered them in a cutting whisper. "Not a move, my friends!"

There was a convulsive movement toward a gun on the part of the first man, but the gesture was frozen midway; the second man looked up, gaping, ludicrous in astonishment. But Terry was in no mood to see the ridiculous.

"Look down again!" he ordered brusquely. "Keep on with that game. And the moment one of you goes for a gun—the minute one of you makes a sign or a sound to reach the man in front of the house, I drill you both. Is that clear?"

The neck of the man who was nearest to him swelled as though he were lifting a great weight with his head; no doubt he was battling with shrewd temptations to spring to one side and drive a bullet at the robbers above him. But prudence conquered. He began to deal, laying out the cards with mechanical, stiff motions.

"Now," said Terry to Denver.

Denver was through the opening in a flash and dropped to the floor below with a thud. Then he leaped away toward the wall out of sight of Terry. Suddenly a loud, nasal voice spoke through one of the front windows:

"What was that, boys?"

Terry caught his breath. He dared not whisper advice to those men at the table for fear his voice might carry to the guard who was apparently leaning at the window outside. But the dealer jerked his head for an instant toward the direction in which Denver had disappeared. Evidently the yegg was silently communicating imperious instructions, for presently the dealer said, in a voice natural enough: "Nothing happened, Lewison. I just moved my chair; that was all, I figure."

"I dunno," growled Lewison. "I been waiting for something to happen for so long that I begin to hear things and suspect things where they ain't nothing at all."

And, still mumbling, his voice passed away.

Terry followed Denver's example, dropping through the opening; but, more cautious, he relaxed his leg muscles, so that he landed in a bunched heap, without sound, and instantly joined Denver on the farther side of the room. Lewison's gaunt outline swept past the window at the same moment.

He found that he had estimated viewpoints accurately enough. From only the right-hand window could Lewison see into the interior of the room and make out his two guards at the table. And it was only by actually leaning through the window that he would be able to see the safe beside which Terry and Denver stood.

"Start!" said Terry, and Denver deftly laid out a little kit and two small packages. With incredible speed he began to make his molding of soft soap around the crack of the safe door. Terry turned his back on his companion and gave his undivided attention to the two at the table.

Their faces were odd studies in suppressed shame and rage. The muscles were taut; their hands shook with the cards.

"You seem kind of glum, boys!" broke in the voice of Lewison at the window.

Terry flattened himself against the wall and jerked up his gun—a warning flash which seemed to be reflected by the glint in the eyes of the red- headed man facing him. The latter turned slowly to the window.

"Oh, we're all right," he drawled. "Kind of getting wearying, this watch."

"Mind you," crackled the uncertain voice of Lewison, "five dollars if you keep on the job till morning. No, six dollars, boys!"

He brought out the last words in the ringing voice of one making a generous sacrifice, and Terry smiled behind his mask. Lewison passed on again. Forcing all his nerve power into the faculty of listening, Terry could tell by the crunching of the sand how the owner of the safe went far from the window and turned again toward it.

"Start talking," he commanded softly of the men at the table.

"About what?" answered the red-haired man through his teeth. "About what, damn you!"

"Tell a joke," ordered Terry.

The other scowled down at his hand of cards—and then obeyed.

"Ever hear about how Rooney—"

The voice was hard at the beginning; then, in spite of the levelled gun which covered him, the red-haired man became absorbed in the interest of the tale. He began to labor to win a smile from his companion. That would be something worthwhile—something to tell about afterward; how he made Pat laugh while a pair of bandits stood in a corner with guns on them!

In his heart Terry admired that red-haired man's nerve. The next time Lewison passed the window, he darted out and swiftly went the rounds of the table, relieving each man of his weapon. He returned to his place. Pat had broken into hearty laughter.

"That's it!" cried Lewison, passing the window again. "Laughin' keeps a gent awake. That's the stuff, Red!" A time of silence came, with only the faint noises of Denver at his rapid work.

"Suppose they was to rush the bank, even?" said Lewison on his next trip past the window.

"Who's they?" asked Red, and looked steadily into the mouth of Terry's gun.

"Why, them that wants my money. Money that I slaved and worked for all my life! Oh, I know they's a lot of crooked thieves that would like to lay hands on it. But I'm going to fool 'em, Red. Never lost a cent of money in all my born days, and I ain't going to form the habit this late in life. I got too much to live for!"

And he went on his way muttering.

"Ready!" said Denver.

"Red," whispered Terry, "how's the money put into the safe?"

The big, red-haired fellow fought him silently with his eyes.

"I dunno!"

"Red," said Terry swiftly, "you and your friend are a dead weight on us just now. And there's one quick, convenient way of getting rid of you. Talk out, my friend. Tell us how that money is stowed."

Red flushed, the veins in the center of his forehead swelling under a rush of blood to the head. He was silent.

It was Pat who weakened, shuddering.

"Stowed in canvas sacks, boys. And some paper money."

The news of the greenbacks was welcome, for a large sum of gold would be an elephant's burden to them in their flight.

"Wait," Terry directed Denver. The latter kneeled by his fuse until Lewison passed far down the end of his beat. Terry stepped to the door and dropped the bolt.

"Now!" he commanded.

He had planned his work carefully. The loose strips of cords which Denver had put into his pocket—"nothing so handy as strong twine," he had said—were already drawn out. And the minute he had given the signal, he sprang for the men at the table, backed them into a corner, and tied their hands behind their backs.

The fuse was sputtering.

"Put out the light!" whispered Denver. It was done—a leap and a puff of breath, and then Terry had joined the huddled group of men at the farther end of the room.

"Hey!" called Lewison. "What's happened to the light? What the hell—"

His voice boomed out loudly at them as he thrust his head through the window into the darkness. He caught sight of the red, flickering end of the fuse.

His voice, grown shrill and sharp, was chopped off by the explosion. It was a noise such as Terry had never heard before—like a tremendously condensed and powerful puff of wind. There was not a sharp jar, but he felt an invisible pressure against his body, taking his breath. The sound of the explosion was dull, muffled, thick. The door of the safe crushed into the flooring.

Terry had nerved himself for two points of attack—Lewison from the front of the building, and the guard at the rear. But Lewison did not yell for help. He had been dangerously close to the explosion and the shock to his nerves, perhaps some dislodged missile, had flung him senseless on the sand outside the bank.

But from the rear of the building came a dull shout; then the door beside which Terry stood was dragged open—he struck with all his weight, driving his fist fairly into the face of the man, and feeling the knuckles cut through flesh and lodge against the cheekbone. The guard went down in the middle of a cry and did not stir. Terry leaned to shake his arm—the man was thoroughly stunned. He paused only to scoop up the fallen revolver which the fellow had been carrying, and fling it into the night. Then he turned back into the dark bank, with Red and Pat cursing in frightened unison as they cowered against the wall behind him.

The air was thick with an ill-smelling smoke, like that of a partially snuffed candle. Then he saw a circle of light spring out from the electric lantern of Denver and fall on the partially wrecked safe. And it glinted on yellow. One of the sacks had been slit and the contents were running out onto the floor like golden water.

Over it stooped the shadow of Denver, and Terry was instantly beside him. They were limp little sacks, marvellously ponderous, and the chill of the metal struck through the canvas to the hand. The searchlight flickered here and there—it found the little drawer which was wrenched open and Denver's stubby hand came out, choked with greenbacks.

"Now away!" snarled Denver. And his voice shook and quaked; it reminded Terry of the whine of a dog half-starved and come upon meat—a savage, subdued sound.

There was another sound from the street where old Lewison was coming to his senses—a gasping, sound, and then a choked cry: "Help!"

His senses and his voice seemed to return to him with a rush. His shriek split through the darkness of the room like a ray of light probing to find the guilty: "Thieves! Help!"

The yell gave strength to Terry. He caught some of the burden that was staggering Denver into his own arms and floundered through the rear door into the blessed openness of the night. His left arm carried the crushing burden of the canvas sacks—in his right hand was the gun—but no form showed behind him.

But there were voices beginning. The yells of Lewison had struck out echoes up and down the street. Terry could hear shouts begin inside houses in answer, and bark out with sudden clearness as a door or a window was opened.

They reached the horses, dumped the precious burdens into the saddlebags, and mounted.

"Which way?" gasped Denver.

A light flickered in the bank; half a dozen men spilled out of the back door, cursing and shouting.

"Walk your horse," said Terry. "Walk it—you fool!"

Denver had let his horse break into a trot. He drew it back to a walk at this hushed command.

"They won't see us unless we start at a hard gallop," continued Terry. "They won't watch for slowly moving objects now. Besides, it'll be ten minutes before the sheriff has a posse organized. And that's the only thing we have to fear."



CHAPTER 36

They drifted past the town, quickening to a soft trot after a moment, and then to a faster trot—El Sangre was gliding along at a steady pace.

"Not back to the house!" said Denver with an oath, when they straightened back to the house of Pollard. "That's the first place McGuire will look, after what you said to him the other night."

"That's where I want him to look," answered Terry, "and that's where he'll find me. Pollard will hide the coin and we'll get one of the boys to take our sweaty horses over the hills. We can tell McGuire that the two horses have been put out to pasture, if he asks. But he mustn't find hot horses in the stable. Certainly McGuire will strike for the house. But what will he find?"

He laughed joyously.

Suddenly the voice of Denver cut in softly, insinuatingly.

"You dope it that he'll cut for the house of Pollard? So do I. Now, kid, why not go another direction—and keep on going? What right have Pollard and the others to cut in on this coin? You and me, kid, can—"

"I don't hear you, Denver," interrupted Terry. "I don't hear you. We wouldn't have known where to find the stuff if it hadn't been for Pollard's friend Sandy. They get their share—but you can have my part, Denver. I'm not doing this for money; it's only an object lesson to that fat-headed sheriff. I'd pay twice this price for the sake of the little talk I'm going to have with him later on tonight."

"All right—Black Jack," muttered Denver. For it seemed to him that the voice of the lost leader had spoken. "Play the fool, then, kid. But— let's feed these skates the spur! The town's boiling!"

Indeed, there was a dull roar behind them.

"No danger," chuckled Terry. "McGuire knows perfectly well that I've done this. And because he knows that, and he knows that I know it, he'll strike in the opposite direction to Pollard's house. He'll never dream that I would go right back to Pollard and sit down under the famous nose of McGuire!"

The dawn was brightening over the mountains above them, and the skyline was ragged with forest. A free country for free men—like the old Black Jack and the new. A short life, perhaps, but a full one.