“I don't know,” he said, “that it would surprise me if you
Denver hissed, very softly and with such a cutting whistle to his breath that Terry's lips remained open over his last word.
“Forget that name!” Denver said in a half-articulate tone of voice.
He froze in his place, staring straight before him; but Terry gathered an impression of the most intense watchfulness—as though, while he stared straight before him, he had sent other and mysterious senses exploring for him. He seemed suddenly satisfied that all was well, and as he relaxed, Terry became aware of a faint gleam of perspiration on the brow of his companion.
“Why the devil did you tell me the name if you didn't want me to use it?” he asked.
“I thought you'd have some savvy; I thought you'd have some of your dad's horse sense,” said Denver.
“No offense,” answered Terry, with the utmost good nature.
“Call me Shorty if you want,” said Denver. In the meantime he was regarding Terry more and more closely.
“Your old man would of made a fight out of it if I'd said as much to him as I've done to you,” he remarked at length.
“Really?” murmured Terry.
And the portrait of his father swept back on him—the lean, imperious, handsome face, the boldness of the eyes. Surely a man all fire and powder, ready to explode. He probed his own nature. He had never been particularly quick of temper—until lately. But he began to wonder if his equable disposition might not rise from the fact that his life in Bear Valley had been so sheltered. He had been crossed rarely. In the outer world it was different. That very morning he had been tempted wickedly to take the tall rancher by the throat and grind his face into the sand.
“But maybe you're different,” went on Denver. “Your old man used to flare up and be over it in a minute. Maybe you remember things and pack a grudge with you.”
“Perhaps,” said Terry, grown strangely meek. “I hardly know.”
Indeed, he thought, how little he really knew of himself. Suddenly he said: “So you simply happened over this way, Shorty?”
“Sure. Why not? I got a right to trail around where I want. Besides, what would there be in it for me— following you?”
“I don't know,” said Terry gravely. “But I expect to find out sooner or later. What else are you up to over here?”
“I have a little job in mind at the mine,” said Denver. “Something that may give the sheriff a bit of trouble.” He grinned.
“Isn't it a little—unprofessional,” said Terry dryly, “for you to tell me these things?”
“Sure it is, bo—sure it is! Worst in the world. But I can always tell a gent that can keep his mouth shut. By the way, how many jobs you been fired from already?”
Terry started. “How do you know that?”
“I just guess at things.”
“I started working for an infernal idiot,” sighed Terry. “When he learned my name, he seemed to be afraid I'd start shooting up his place one of these days.”
“Well, he was a wise gent. You ain't cut out for working, son. Not a bit. It'd be a shame to let you go to waste simply raising calluses on your hands.”
“You talk well,” sighed Terry, “but you can't convince me.”
“Convince you? Hell, I ain't trying to convince your father's son. You're like Black Jack. You got to find out yourself. We was with a Mick, once. Red-headed devil, he was. I says to Black Jack: 'Don't crack no jokes about the Irish around this guy!'
“'Why not?' says your dad.
“'Because there'd be an explosion,' says I.
“'H'm,' says Black Jack, and lifts his eyebrows in a way he had of doing.
“And the first thing he does is to try a joke on the Irish right in front of the Mick. Well, there was an explosion, well enough.”
“What happened?” asked Terry, carried away with curiosity.
“What generally happened, kid, when somebody acted up in front of your dad?” From the air he secured an imaginary morsel between stubby thumb and forefinger and then blew the imaginary particle into empty space.
“He killed him?” asked Terry hoarsely.
“No,” said Denver, “he didn't do that. He just broke his heart for him. Kicked the gat out of the hand of the poor stiff and wrestled with him. Black Jack was a wildcat when it come to fighting with his hands. When he got through with the Irishman, there wasn't a sound place on the fool. Black Jack climbed back on his horse and threw the gun back at the guy on the ground and rode off. Next we heard, the guy was working for a Chinaman that run a restaurant. Black Jack had taken all the fight out of him.”
That scene out of the past drifted vividly back before Terry's eyes. He saw the sneer on the lips of Black Jack; saw the Irishman go for his gun; saw the clash, with his father leaping in with tigerish speed; felt the shock of the two strong bodies, and saw the other turn to pulp under the grip of Black Jack.
