The coming of the day showed Denver's face weary and drawn. Those moments in the bank, surrounded by danger, had been nerve-racking even to his experience. But to him it was a business, and to Terry it was a game. He felt a qualm of pity for Lewison—but, after all, the man was a wolf, selfish, accumulating money to no purpose, useless to the world. He shrugged the thought of Lewison away.

It was close to sunrise when they reached the house, and having put up the horses, staggered in and called to Johnny to bring them coffee; he was already rattling at the kitchen stove. Then, with a shout, they brought Pollard himself stumbling down from the balcony rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They threw the money down before him.

He was stupefied, and then his big lion's voice went booming with the call for his men. Terry did not wait; he stretched himself with a great yawn and made for his bed, and passed Phil Marvin and the others hurrying downstairs to answer the summons. Kate Pollard came also. She paused as he went by her and he saw her eyes go down to his dusty boots, with the leather polished where the stirrup had chafed, then flashed back to his face.

"You, Terry!" she whispered.

But he went by her with a wave of the hand.

The girl went on down to the big room. They were gathered already, a bright-eyed, hungry-faced crew of men. Gold was piled across the table in front of them. Slim Dugan had been ordered to go to the highest window of the house and keep watch for the coming of the expected posse. In the meantime the others counted the money, ranging it in bright little stacks; and Denver told the tale.

He took a little more credit to himself than was his due. But it was his part to pay a tribute to Terry. For was it not he who had brought the son of Black Jack among them?

"And of all the close squeezes I ever been in," concluded Denver, "that was the closest. And of all the nervy, cold-eyed guys I ever see, Black Jack's kid takes the cake. Never a quiver all the time. And when he whispered, them two guys at the table jumped. He meant business, and they knew it."

The girl listened. Her eye alone was not upon the money, but fixed far off, at thin distance.

"Thirty-five thousand gold," announced Pollard, with a break of excitement in his voice, "and seventeen thousand three hundred and eighty-two in paper. Boys, the richest haul we ever made! And the coolest deal all the way through. Which I say, Denver and Terry—Terry particular—gets extra shares for what they done!"

And there was a chorus of hearty approval. The voice of Denver cut it short.

"Terry don't want none. No, boys, knock me dead if he does. Can you beat it? 'I did it to keep my word,' he says, 'with the sheriff. You can have my share, Denver.'

"And he sticks on it. It's a game with him, boys. He plays at it like a big kid!"

In the hush of astonishment, the eyes of Kate misted. Something in that last speech had stung her cruelly. Something had to be done, and quickly, to save young Terry Hollis. But what power could influence him?

It was that thought which brought her to the hope for a solution. A very vague and faraway hope to which she clung and which unravelled slowly in her imagination. Before she left the kitchen, her plan was made, and immediately after breakfast, she went to her room and dressed for a long journey.

"I'm going over the hills to visit the Stockton girls," she told her father. "Be gone a few days."

His mind was too filled with hope for the future to understand her. He nodded idly, and she was gone.

She roped the toughest mustang of her "string" in the corral, and ten minutes later she was jogging down the trail. Halfway down a confused group of riders—some dozen in all—swarmed up out of the lower trail. Sheriff McGuire rode out on a sweating horse that told of fierce and long riding and stopped her.

His salutation was brief; he plunged into the heart of his questions. Had she noticed anything unusual this morning? Which of the men had been absent from the house last night? Particularly, who went out with Black Jack's kid?

"Nobody left the house," she said steadily. "Not a soul."

And she kept a blank eye on the sheriff while he bit his lip and studied her.

"Kate," he said at length, "I don't blame you for not talking. I don't suppose I would in your place. But your dad has about reached the end of the rope with us. If you got any influence, try to change him, because if he don't do it by his own will, he's going to be changed by force!"

And he rode on up the trail, followed by the silent string of riders on their grunting, tired horses. She gave them only a careless glance. Joe Pollard had baffled officers of the law before, and he would do it again. That was not her great concern on this day.

Down the trail she sent her mustang again, and broke him out into a stiff gallop on the level ground below. She headed straight through the town, and found a large group collected in and around the bank building. They turned and looked after her, but no one spoke a greeting. Plainly the sheriff's suspicions were shared by others.

She shook that shadow out of her head and devoted her entire attention to the trail which roughened and grew narrow on the other side of the town. Far away across the mountains lay her goal—the Cornish ranch.



CHAPTER 37

When she first glimpsed Bear Valley from the summits of the Blue Mountains, it seemed to her a small paradise. And as she rode lower and lower among the hills, the impression gathered strength. So she came out onto the road and trotted her cow-pony slowly under the beautiful branches of the silver spruce, and saw the bright tree shadows reflected in Bear Creek. Surely here was a place of infinite quiet, made for happiness. A peculiar ache and sense of emptiness entered her heart, and the ghost of Terry Hollis galloped soundlessly beside her on flaming El Sangre through the shadow. It seemed to her that she could understand him more easily. His had been a sheltered and pleasant life here, half dreamy; and when he wakened into a world of stern reality and stern men, he was still playing at a game like a boy—as Denver Pete had said.

She came out into view of the house. And again she paused. It was like a palace to Kate, that great white facade and the Doric columns of the veranda. She had always thought that the house of her father was a big and stable house; compared with this, it was a shack, a lean-to, a veritable hovel. And the confidence which had been hers during the hard ride of two days across the mountains grew weaker. How could she talk to the woman who owned such an establishment as this? How could she even gain access to her?

On a broad, level terrace below the house men were busy with plows and scrapers smoothing the ground; she circled around them, and brought her horse to a stop before the veranda. Two men sat on it, one white-haired, hawk-faced, spreading a broad blueprint before the other; and this man was middle-aged, with a sleek, young face. A very good-looking fellow, she thought.

"Maybe you-all could tell me," said Kate Pollard, lounging in the saddle, "where I'll find the lady that owns this here place?"

It seemed to her that the sleek-faced man flushed a little.

"If you wish to talk to the owner," he said crisply, and barely touching his hat to her, "I'll do your business. What is it? Cattle lost over the Blue Mountains again? No strays have come down into the valley."

"I'm not here about cattle," she answered curtly enough. "I'm here about a man."

"H'm," said the other. "A man?" His attention quickened. "What man?"

"Terry Hollis."

She could see him start. She could also see that he endeavored to conceal it. And she did not know whether she liked or disliked that quick start and flush. There was something either of guilt or of surprise remarkably strong in it. He rose from his chair, leaving the blueprint fluttering in the hands of his companion alone.

"I am Vance Cornish," he told her. She could feel his eyes prying at her as though he were trying to get at her more accurately. "What's Hollis been up to now?"

He turned and explained carelessly to his companion: "That's the young scapegrace I told you about, Waters. Been raising Cain again, I suppose." He faced the girl again.

"A good deal of it," she answered. "Yes, he's been making quite a bit of trouble."

"I'm sorry for that, really," said Vance. "But we are not responsible for him."

"I suppose you ain't," said Kate Pollard slowly. "But I'd like to talk to the lady of the house."

"Very sorry," and again he looked in his sharp way—like a fox, she thought—and then glanced away as though there were no interest in her or her topic. "Very sorry, but my sister is in—er—critically declining health. I'm afraid she cannot see you."

This repulse made Kate thoughtful. She was not used to such bluff talk from men, however smooth or rough the exterior might be. And under the quiet of Vance she sensed an opposition like a stone wall.

"I guess you ain't a friend of Terry's?"

"I'd hardly like to put it strongly one way or the other. I know the boy, if that's what you mean."

"It ain't." She considered him again. And again she was secretly pleased to see him stir under the cool probe of her eyes. "How long did you live with Terry?"

"He was with us twenty-four years." He turned and explained casually to Waters. "He was taken in as a foundling, you know. Quite against my advice. And then, at the end of the twenty-four years, the bad blood of his father came out, and he showed himself in his true colors. Fearful waste of time to us all—of course, we had to turn him out."

"Of course," nodded Waters sympathetically, and he looked wistfully down at his blueprint.

"Twenty-four years you lived with Terry," said the girl softly, "and you don't like him, I see."

Instantly and forever he was damned in her eyes. Anyone who could live twenty-four years with Terry Hollis and not discover his fineness was beneath contempt.

"I'll tell you," she said. "I've got to see Miss Elizabeth Cornish."

"H'm!" said Vance. "I'm afraid not. But—just what have you to tell her?"

The girl smiled.

"If I could tell you that, I wouldn't have to see her."

He rubbed his chin with his knuckles, staring at the floor of the veranda, and now and then raising quick glances at her. Plainly he was suspicious. Plainly, also, he was tempted in some manner.

"Something he's done, eh? Some yarn about Terry?"

It was quite plain that this man actually wanted her to have something unpleasant to say about Terry. Instantly she suited herself to his mood; for he was the door through which she must pass to see Elizabeth Cornish.

"Bad?" she said, hardening her expression as much as possible. "Well, bad enough. A killing to begin with."

There was a gleam in his eyes—a gleam of positive joy, she was sure, though he banished it at once and shook his head in deprecation.

"Well, well! As bad as that? I suppose you may see my sister. For a moment. Just a moment. She is not well. I wish I could understand your purpose!"

The last was more to himself than to her. But she was already off her horse. The man with the blueprint glared at her, and she passed across the veranda and into the house, where Vance showed her up the big stairs. At the door of his sister's room he paused again and scrutinized.

"A killing—by Jove!" he murmured to himself, and then knocked.

A dull voice called from within, and he opened. Kate found herself in a big, solemn room, in one corner of which sat an old woman wrapped to the chin in a shawl. The face was thin and bleak, and the eyes that looked at Kate were dull.

"This girl—" said Vance. "By Jove, I haven't asked your name, I'm afraid."

"Kate Pollard."

"Miss Pollard has some news of Terry. I thought it might—interest you, Elizabeth."

Kate saw the brief struggle on the face of the old woman. When it passed, her eyes were as dull as ever, but her voice had become husky.

"I'm surprised, Vance. I thought you understood—his name is not to be spoken, if you please."

"Of course not. Yet I thought—never mind. If you'll step downstairs with me, Miss Pollard, and tell me what—"

"Not a step," answered the girl firmly, and she had not moved her eyes from the face of the elder woman. "Not a step with you. What I have to say has got to be told to someone who loves Terry Hollis. I've found that someone. I stick here till I've done talking."

Vance Cornish gasped. But Elizabeth opened her eyes, and they brightened—but coldly, it seemed to Kate.

"I think I understand," said Elizabeth Cornish gravely. "He has entangled the interest of this poor girl—and sent her to plead for him. Is that so? If it's money he wants, let her have what she asks for, Vance. But I can't talk to her of the boy."

"Very well," said Vance, without enthusiasm. He stepped before her. "Will you step this way, Miss Pollard?"

"Not a step," she repeated, and deliberately sat down in a chair. "You'd better leave," she told Vance.

He considered her in open anger. "If you've come to make a scene, I'll have to let you know that on account of my sister I cannot endure it. Really—" "I'm going to stay here," she echoed, "until I've done talking. I've found the right person. I know that. Tell you what I want? Why, you hate Terry Hollis!"

"Hate—him?" murmured Elizabeth.

"Nonsense!" cried Vance.

"Look at his face, Miss Cornish," said the girl.

"Vance, by everything that's sacred, your eyes were positively shrinking. Do you hate—him?"

"My dear Elizabeth, if this unknown—"

"You'd better leave," interrupted the girl. "Miss Cornish is going to hear me talk."

Before he could answer, his sister said calmly: "I think I shall, Vance. I begin to be intrigued."

"In the first place," he blurted angrily, "it's something you shouldn't hear—some talk about a murder—"

Elizabeth sank back in her chair and closed her eyes.

"Ah, coward!" cried Kate Pollard, now on her feet.

"Vance, will you leave me for a moment?"

For a moment he was white with malice, staring at the girl, then suddenly submitting to the inevitable, turned on his heel and left the room.

"Now," said Elizabeth, sitting erect again, "what is it? Why do you insist on talking to me of—him? And—what has he done?"

In spite of her calm, a quiver of emotion was behind the last words, and nothing of it escaped Kate Pollard.

"I knew," she said gently, "that two people couldn't live with Terry for twenty-four years and both hate him, as your brother does. I can tell you very quickly why I'm here, Miss Cornish."

"But first—what has he done?"

Kate hesitated. Under the iron self-control of the older woman she saw the hungry heart, and it stirred her. Yet she was by no means sure of a triumph. She recognized the most formidable of all foes—pride. After all, she wanted to humble that pride. She felt that all the danger in which Terry Hollis now stood, both moral and physical, was indirectly the result of this woman's attitude. And she struck her, deliberately cruelly.

"He's taken up with a gang of hard ones, Miss Cornish. That's one thing."

The face of Elizabeth was like stone.

"Professional—thieves, robbers!"

And still Elizabeth refused to wince. She forced a cold, polite smile of attention.

"He went into a town and killed the best fighter they had."

And even this blow did not tell.

"And then he defied the sheriff, went back to the town, and broke into a bank and stole fifty thousand dollars."

The smile wavered and went out, but still the dull eyes of Elizabeth were steady enough. Though perhaps that dullness was from pain. And Kate, waiting eagerly, was chagrined to see that she had not broken through to any softness of emotion. One sign of grief and trembling was all she wanted before she made her appeal; but there was no weakness in Elizabeth Cornish, it seemed.

"You see I am listening," she said gravely and almost gently. "Although I am really not well. And I hardly see the point of this long recital of crimes. It was because I foresaw what he would become that I sent him away."

"Miss Cornish, why'd you take him in in the first place?"

"It's a long story," said Elizabeth.

"I'm a pretty good listener," said Kate.

Elizabeth Cornish looked away, as though she hesitated to touch on the subject, or as though it were too unimportant to be referred to at length.

"In brief, I saw from a hotel window Black Jack, his father, shot down in the street; heard about the infant son he left, and adopted the child—on a bet with my brother. To see if blood would tell or if I could make him a fine man."

She paused.

"My brother won the bet!"

And her smile was a wonderful thing, so perfectly did it mask her pain.

"And, of course, I sent Terry away. I have forgotten him, really. Just a bad experiment."

Kate Pollard flushed.

"You'll never forget him," she said firmly. "You think of him every day!"

The elder woman started and looked sharply at her visitor. Then she dismissed the idea with a shrug.

"That's absurd. Why should I think of him?"

There is a spirit of prophecy in most women, old or young; and especially they have a way of looking through the flesh of their kind and seeing the heart. Kate Pollard came a little closer to her hostess.

"You saw Black Jack die in the street," she queried, "fighting for his life?"

Elizabeth dreamed into the vague distance.

"Riding down the street with his hair blowing—long black hair, you know," she reminisced. "And holding the crowd back as one would hold back a crowd of curs. Then—he was shot from the side by a man in concealment. That was how he fell!"

"I knew," murmured the girl, nodding. "Miss Cornish, I know now why you took in Terry."

"Ah?"

"Not because of a bet—but because you—you loved Black Jack Hollis!"

It brought an indrawn gasp from Elizabeth. Rather of horror than surprise. But the girl went on steadily:

"I know. You saw him with his hair blowing, fighting his way—he rode into your heart. I know, I tell you! Maybe you've never guessed it all these years. But has a single day gone when you haven't thought of the picture?"

The scornful, indignant denial died on the lips of Elizabeth Cornish. She stared at Kate as though she were seeing a ghost.

"Not one day!" cried Kate. "And so you took in Terry, and you raised him and loved him—not for a bet, but because he was Black Jack's son!"

Elizabeth Cornish had grown paler than before. "I mustn't listen to such talk," she said.

"Ah," cried the girl, "don't you see that I have a right to talk? Because I love him also, and I know that you love him, too."

Elizabeth Cornish came to her feet, and there was a faint flush in her cheeks.

"You love Terry? Ah, I see. And he has sent you!"

"He'd die sooner than send me to you."

"And yet—you came?"

"Don't you see?" pleaded Kate. "He's in a corner. He's about to go—bad!"

"Miss Pollard, how do you know these things?"

"Because I'm the daughter of the leader of the gang!"

She said it without shame, proudly.

"I've tried to keep him from the life he intends leading," said Kate. "I can't turn him. He laughs at me. I'm nothing to him, you see? And he loves the new life. He loves the freedom. Besides, he thinks that there's no hope. That he has to be what his father was before him. Do you know why he thinks that? Because you turned him out. You thought he would turn bad. And he respects you. He still turns to you. Ah, if you could hear him speak of you! He loves you still!"

Elizabeth Cornish dropped back into her chair, grown suddenly weak, and Kate fell on her knees beside her.

"Don't you see," she said softly, "that no strength can turn Terry back now? He's done nothing wrong. He shot down the man who killed his father. He has killed another man who was a professional bully and mankiller. And he's broken into a bank and taken money from a man who deserved to lose it—a wolf of a man everybody hates. He's done nothing really wrong yet, but he will before long. Just because he's stronger than other men. And he doesn't know his strength. And he's fine, Miss Cornish. Isn't he always gentle and—"

"Hush!" said Elizabeth Cornish.

"He's just a boy; you can't bend him with strength, but you can win him with love."

"What," gasped Elizabeth, "do you want me to do?"

"Bring him back. Bring him back, Miss Cornish!"

Elizabeth Cornish was trembling.

"But I—if you can't influence him, how can I? You with your beautiful— you are very beautiful, dear child. Ah, very lovely!"

She barely touched the bright hair.

"He doesn't even think of me," said the girl sadly. "But I have no shame. I have let you know everything. It isn't for me. It's for Terry, Miss Cornish. And you'll come? You'll come as quickly as you can? You'll come to my father's house? You'll ask Terry to come back? One word will do it! And I'll hurry back and—keep him there till you come. God give me strength! I'll keep him till you come!"

Outside the door, his ear pressed to the crack, Vance Cornish did not wait to hear more. He knew the answer of Elizabeth before she spoke. And all his high-built schemes he saw topple about his ears. Grief had been breaking the heart of his sister, he knew. Grief had been bringing her close to the grave. With Terry back, she would regain ten years of life. With Terry back, the old life would begin again.

He straightened and staggered down the stairs like a drunken man, clinging to the banister. It was an old-faced man who came out onto the veranda, where Waters was chewing his cigar angrily. At sight of his host he started up. He was a keen man, was Waters. He could sense money a thousand miles away. And it was this buzzard keenness which had brought him to the Cornish ranch and made him Vance's right-hand man. There was much money to be spent; Waters would direct and plan the spending, and his commission would not be small.

In the face of Vance he saw his own doom.

"Waters," said Vance Cornish, "everything is going up in smoke. That damned girl—Waters, we're ruined."

"Tush!" said Waters, smiling, though he had grown gray. "No one girl can ruin two middle-aged men with our senses developed. Sit down, man, and we'll figure a way out of this."



CHAPTER 38

The fine gray head, the hawklike, aristocratic face, and the superior manner of Waters procured him admission to many places where the ordinary man was barred. It secured him admission on this day to the office of Sheriff McGuire, though McGuire had refused to see his best friends.

A proof of the perturbed state of his mind was that he accepted the proffered fresh cigar of Waters without comment or thanks. His mental troubles made him crisp to the point of rudeness.

"I'm a tolerable busy man, Mr.—Waters, I think they said your name was. Tell me what you want, and make it short, if you don't mind."

"Not a bit, sir. I rarely waste many words. But I think on this occasion we have a subject in common that will interest you."

Waters had come on what he felt was more or less of a wild-goose chase. The great object was to keep young Hollis from coming in contact with Elizabeth Cornish again. One such interview, as Vance Cornish had assured him, would restore the boy to the ranch, make him the heir to the estate, and turn Vance and his high ambitions out of doors. Also, the high commission of Mr. Waters would cease. With no plan in mind, he had rushed to the point of contact, and hoped to find some scheme after he arrived there. As for Vance, the latter would promise money; otherwise he was a shaken wreck of a man and of no use. But with money, Mr. Waters felt that he had the key to this world and he was not without hope.

Three hours in the hotel of the town gave him many clues. Three hours of casual gossip on the veranda of the same hotel had placed him in possession of about every fact, true or presumably true, that could be learned, and with the knowledge a plan sprang into his fertile brain. The worn, worried face of the sheriff had been like water on a dry field; he felt that the seed of his plan would immediately spring up and bear fruit.

"And that thing we got in common?" said the sheriff tersely.

"It's this—young Terry Hollis."

He let that shot go home without a follow-up and was pleased to see the sheriff's forehead wrinkle with pain.

"He's like a ghost hauntin' me," declared McGuire, with an attempted laugh that failed flatly. "Every time I turn around, somebody throws this Hollis in my face. What is it now?"

"Do you mind if I run over the situation briefly, as I understand it?"

"Fire away!"

The sheriff settled back; he had forgotten his rush of business.

"As I understand it, you, Mr. McGuire, have the reputation of keeping your county clean of crime and scenes of violence."

"Huh!" grunted the sheriff.

"Everyone says," went on Waters, "that no one except a man named Minter has done such work in meeting the criminal element on their own ground. You have kept your county peaceful. I believe that is true?"

"Huh," repeated McGuire. "Kind of soft-soapy, but it ain't all wrong. They ain't been much doing in these parts since I started to clean things up."

"Until recently," suggested Waters.

The face of the sheriff darkened. "Well?" he asked aggressively.

"And then two crimes in a row. First, a gun brawl in broad daylight— young Hollis shot a fellow named—er—"

"Larrimer," snapped the sheriff viciously. "It was a square fight. Larrimer forced the scrap."

"I suppose so. Nevertheless, it was a gunfight. And next, two men raid the bank in the middle of your town, and in spite of you and of special guards, blow the door off a safe and gut the safe of its contents. Am I right?"

The sheriff merely scowled.

"It ain't clear to me yet," he declared, "how you and me get together on any topic we got in common. Looks sort of like we was just hearing one old yarn over and over agin."

"My dear sir," smiled Waters, "you have not allowed me to come to the crux of my story. Which is: that you and I have one great object in common—to dispose of this Terry Hollis, for I take it for granted that if you were to get rid of him the people who criticize now would do nothing but cheer you. Am I right?"

"If I could get him," sighed the sheriff. "Mr. Waters, gimme time and I'll get him, right enough. But the trouble with the gents around these parts is that they been spoiled. I cleaned up all the bad ones so damn quick that they think I can do the same with every crook that comes along. But this Hollis is a slick one, I tell you. He covers his tracks. Laughs in my face, and admits what he done, when he talks to me, like he done the other day. But as far as evidence goes, I ain't got anything on him—yet. But I'll get it!"

"And in the meantime," said Waters brutally, "they say that you're getting old."

The sheriff became a brilliant purple.

"Do they say that?" he muttered. "That's gratitude for you, Mr. Waters! After what I've done for 'em—they say I'm getting old just because I can't get anything on this slippery kid right off!"

He changed from purple to gray. To fail now and lose his position meant a ruined life. And Waters knew what was in his mind.

"But if you got Terry Hollis, they'd be stronger behind you than ever."

"Ah, wouldn't they, though? Tell me what a great gent I was quick as a flash."

He sneered at the thought of public opinion.

"And you see," said Waters, "where I come in is that I have a plan for getting this Hollis you desire so much."

"You do?" He rose and grasped the arm of Waters. "You do?"

Waters nodded.

"It's this way. I understand that he killed Larrimer, and Larrimer's older brother is the one who is rousing public opinion against you. Am I right?"

"The dog! Yes, you're right."

"Then get Larrimer to send Terry Hollis an invitation to come down into town and meet him face to face in a gun fight. I understand this Hollis is a daredevil sort and wouldn't refuse an invitation of that nature. He'd have to respond or else lose his growing reputation as a maneater."

"Maneater? Why, Bud Larrimer wouldn't be more'n a mouthful for him. Sure he'd come to town. And he'd clean up quick. But Larrimer ain't fool enough to send such an invite."

"You don't understand me," persisted Waters patiently. "What I mean is this. Larrimer sends the challenge, if you wish to call it that. He takes up a certain position. Say in a public place. You and your men, if you wish, are posted nearby, but out of view when young Hollis comes. When Terry Hollis arrives, the moment he touches a gun butt, you fill him full of lead and accuse him of using unfair play against Larrimer. Any excuse will do. The public want an end of young Hollis. They won't be particular with their questions."

He found it difficult to meet the narrowed eyes of the sheriff.

"What you want me to do," said the sheriff, with slow effort, "is to set a trap, get Hollis into it, and then—murder him?"

"A brutal way of putting it, my dear fellow."

"A true way," said the sheriff.

But he was thinking, and Waters waited.

When he spoke, his voice was soft enough to blend with the sheriff's thoughts without actually interrupting them.

"You're not a youngster any more, sheriff, and if you lose out here, your reputation is gone for good. You'll not have the time to rebuild it. Here is a chance for you not only to stop the evil rumors, but to fortify your past record with a new bit of work that will make people talk of you. They don't really care how you do it. They won't split hairs about method. They want Hollis put out of the way. I say, cache yourself away. Let Hollis come to meet Larrimer in a private room. You can arrange it with Larrimer yourself later on. You shoot from concealment the moment Hollis shows his face. It can be said that Larrimer did the shooting, and beat Hollis to the draw. The glory of it will bribe Larrimer."

The sheriff shook his head. Waters leaned forward.

"My friend," he said. "I represent in this matter a wealthy man to whom the removal of Terry Hollis will be worth money. Five thousand dollars cash, sheriff!"

The sheriff moistened his lips and his eyes grew wild. He had lived long and worked hard and saved little. Yet he shook his head.

"Ten thousand dollars," whispered Waters. "Cash!"

The sheriff groaned, rose, paced the room, and then slumped into a chair.

"Tell Bud Larrimer I want to see him," he said. The following letter, which was received at the house of Joe Pollard, was indeed a gem of English:

MR. TERRY BLACK JACK:

Sir, I got this to say. Since you done my brother dirt I bin looking for a chans to get even and I ain't seen any chanses coming my way so Ime going to make one which I mean that Ile be waiting for you in town today and if you don't come Ile let the boys know that you aint only an ornery mean skunk but your a yaller hearted dog also which I beg to remain

Yours very truly,

Bud Larrimer.

Terry Hollis read the letter and tossed it with laughter to Phil Marvin, who sat cross-legged on the floor mending a saddle, and Phil and the rest of the boys shook their heads over it.

"What I can't make out," said Joe Pollard, voicing the sentiments of the rest, "is how Bud Larrimer, that's as slow as a plow horse with a gun, could ever find the guts to challenge Terry Hollis to a fair fight."

Kate Pollard rose anxiously with a suggestion. Today or tomorrow at the latest she expected the arrival of Elizabeth Cornish, and so far it had been easy to keep Terry at the house. The gang was gorged with the loot of the Lewison robbery, and Terry's appetite for excitement had been cloyed by that event also. This strange challenge from the older Larrimer was the fly in the ointment.

"It ain't hard to tell why he sent that challenge," she declared. "He has some sneaking plan up his sleeve, Dad. You know Bud Larrimer. He hasn't the nerve to fight a boy. How'll he ever manage to stand up to Terry unless he's got hidden backing?"

She herself did not know how accurately she was hitting off the situation; but she was drawing it as black as possible to hold Terry from accepting the challenge. It was her father who doubted her suggestion.

"It sounds queer," he said, "but the gents of these parts don't make no ambushes while McGuire is around. He's a clean shooter, is McGuire, and he don't stand for no shady work with guns."

Again Kate went to the attack.

"But the sheriff would do anything to get Terry. You know that. And maybe he isn't so particular about how it's done. Dad, don't you let Terry make a step toward town! I know something would happen! And even if they didn't ambush him, he would be outlawed even if he won the fight. No matter how fair he may fight, they won't stand for two killings in so short a time. You know that, Dad. They'd have a mob out here to lynch him!"

"You're right, Kate," nodded her father. "Terry, you better stay put."

But Terry Hollis had risen and stretched himself to the full length of his height, and extended his long arms sleepily. Every muscle played smoothly up his arms and along his shoulders. He was fit for action from the top of his head to the soles of his feet.

"Partners," he announced gently, "no matter what Bud Larrimer has on his mind, I've got to go in and meet him. Maybe I can convince him without gun talk. I hope so. But it will have to be on the terms he wants. I'll saddle up and lope into town."

He started for the door. The other members of the Pollard gang looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders. Plainly the whole affair was a bad mess. If Terry shot Larrimer, he would certainly be followed by a lynching mob, because no self-respecting Western town could allow two members of its community to be dropped in quick succession by one man of an otherwise questionable past. No matter how fair the gunplay, just as Kate had said, the mob would rise. But on the other hand, how could Terry refuse to respond to such an invitation without compromising his reputation as a man without fear?

There was nothing to do but fight.

But Kate ran to her father. "Dad," she cried, "you got to stop him!"

He looked into her drawn face in astonishment.

"Look here, honey," he advised rather sternly. "Man-talk is man-talk, and man-ways are man-ways, and a girl like you can't understand. You keep out of this mess. It's bad enough without having your hand added."

She saw there was nothing to be gained in this direction. She turned to the rest of the men; they watched her with blank faces. Not a man there but would have done much for the sake of a single smile. But how could they help?

Desperately she ran to the door, jerked it open, and followed Terry to the stable. He had swung the saddle from its peg and slipped it over the back of El Sangre, and the great stallion turned to watch this perennially interesting operation.

"Terry," she said, "I want ten words with you."

"I know what you want to say," he answered gently. "You want to make me stay away from town today. To tell you the truth, Kate, I hate to go in. I hate it like the devil. But what can I do? I have no grudge against Larrimer. But if he wants to talk about his brother's death, why—good Lord, Kate, I have to go in and listen, don't I? I can't dodge that responsibility!"

"It's a trick, Terry. I swear it's a trick. I can feel it!" She dropped her hand nervously on the heavy revolver which she wore strapped at her hip, and fingered the gold chasing. Without her gun, ever since early girlhood, she had felt that her toilet was not complete.

"It may be," he nodded thoughtfully. "And I appreciate the advice, Kate— but what would you have me do?"

"Terry," she said eagerly, "you know what this means. You've killed once. If you go into town today, it means either that you kill or get killed. And one thing is about as bad as the other."

Again he nodded. She was surprised that he would admit so much, but there were parts of his nature which, plainly, she had not yet reached to.

"What difference does it make, Kate?" His voice fell into a profound gloom. "What difference? I can't change myself. I'm what I am. It's in the blood. I was born to this. I can't help it. I know that I'll lose in the end. But while I live I'll be happy. A little while!"

She choked. But the sight of his drawing the cinches, the imminence of his departure, cleared her mind again.

"Give me two minutes," she begged.

"Not one," he answered. "Kate, you only make us both unhappy. Do you suppose I wouldn't change if I could?"

He came to her and took her hands.

"Honey, there are a thousand things I'd like to say to you, but being what I am, I have no right to say them to you—never, or to any other woman! I'm born to be what I am. I tell you, Kate, the woman who raised me, who was a mother to me, saw what I was going to be—and turned me out like a dog! And I don't blame her. She was right!"

She grasped at the straw of hope.

"Terry, that woman has changed her mind. You hear? She's lived heartbroken since she turned you out. And now she's coming for you to—to beg you to come back to her! Terry, that's how much she's given up hope in you!"

But he drew back, his face growing dark.

"You've been to see her, Kate? That's where you went when you were away those four days?"

She dared not answer. He was trembling with hurt pride and rage.

"You went to her—she thought I sent you—that I've grown ashamed of my own father, and that I want to beg her to take me back? Is that what she thinks?"

He struck his hand across his forehead and groaned.

"God! I'd rather die than have her think it for a minute. Kate, how could you do it? I'd have trusted you always to do the right thing and the proud thing—and here you've shamed me!"

He turned to the horse, and El Sangre stepped out of the stall and into a shaft of sunlight that burned on him like blood-red fire. And beside him young Terry Hollis, straight as a pine, and as strong—a glorious figure. It broke her heart to see him, knowing what was coming.

"Terry, if you ride down yonder, you're going to a dog's death! I swear you are, Terry!"

She stretched out her arms to him; but he turned to her with his hand on the pommel, and his face was like iron.

"I've made my choice. Will you stand aside, Kate?"

"You're set on going? Nothing will change you? But I tell you, I'm going to change you! I'm only a girl. And I can't stop you with a girl's weapons. I'll do it with a man's. Terry, take the saddle off that horse! And promise me you'll stay here till Elizabeth Cornish comes!"

"Elizabeth Cornish?" He laughed bitterly. "When she conies, I'll be a hundred miles away, and bound farther off. That's final."

"You're wrong," she cried hysterically. "You're going to stay here. You may throw away your share in yourself. But I have a share that I won't throw away. Terry, for the last time!"

He shook his head.

She caught her breath with a sob. Someone was coming from the outside. She heard her father's deep-throated laughter. Whatever was done, she must do it quickly. And he must be stopped!

The hand on the gun butt jerked up—the long gun flashed in her hand.

"Kate!" cried Terry. "Good God, are you mad?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "Mad! Will you stay?"

"What infernal nonsense—"

The gun boomed hollowly in the narrow passage between mow and wall. El Sangre reared, a red flash in the sunlight, and landed far away in the shadow, trembling. But Terry Hollis had spun halfway around, swung by the heavy, tearing impact of the big slug, and then sank to the floor, where he sat clasping his torn thigh with both hands, his shoulder and head sagging against the wall.

Joe Pollard, rushing in with an outcry, found the gun lying sparkling in the sunshine, and his daughter, hysterical and weeping, holding the wounded man in her arms.

"What—in the name of—" he roared.

"Accident, Joe," gasped Terry. "Fooling with Kate's gun and trying a spin with it. It went off—drilled me clean through the leg!"

That night, very late, in Joe Pollard's house, Terry Hollis lay on the bed with a dim light reaching to him from the hooded lamp in the corner of the room. His arms were stretched out on each side and one hand held that of Kate, warm, soft, young, clasping his fingers feverishly and happily. And on the other side was the firm, cool pressure of the hand of Aunt Elizabeth.

His mind was in a haze. Vaguely he perceived the gleam of tears on the face of Elizabeth. And he had heard her say: "All the time I didn't know, Terry. I thought I was ashamed of the blood in you. But this girl opened my eyes. She told me the truth. The reason I took you in was because I loved that wild, fierce, gentle, terrible father of yours. If you have done a little of what he did, what does it matter? Nothing to me! Oh, Terry, nothing in the world to me! Except that Kate brought me to my senses in time—bless her—and now I have you back, dear boy!"

He remembered smiling faintly and happily at that. And he said before he slept: "It's a bit queer, isn't it, even two wise women can't show a man that he's a fool? It takes a bullet to turn the trick!"

But when he went to sleep, his head turned a little from Elizabeth toward Kate.

And the women raised their heads and looked at one another with filmy eyes. They both understood what that feeble gesture meant. It told much of the fine heart of Elizabeth—that she was able to smile at the girl and forgive her for having stolen again what she had restored.

It was the break-up of the Pollard gang, the sudden disaffection of their newest and most brilliant member. Joe himself was financed by Elizabeth Cornish and opened a small string of small-town hotels.

"Which is just another angle of the road business," he often said, "except that the law works with you and not agin you."

But he never quite recovered from the restoration of the Lewison money on which Elizabeth and Terry both insisted. Neither did Denver Pete. He left them in disgust and was never heard of again in those parts. And he always thereafter referred to Terry as "a promising kid gone to waste."

THE END