taken in and made one of them.
“But no more talk tonight,” said Pollard. “I can see you're played out. I'll show you the room.”
He caught a lantern from the wall as he spoke and began to lead the way up the stairs to the balcony. He pointed out the advantages of the house as he spoke.
“Not half bad—this house, eh?” he said proudly. “And who d'you think planned it? Your old man, kid. It was Black Jack Hollis himself that done it! He was took off sudden before he'd had a chance to work it out and build it. But I used his ideas in this the same's I've done in other things. His idea was a house like a ship.
“They build a ship in compartments, eh? Ship hits a rock, water comes in. But it only fills one compartment, and the old ship still floats. Same with this house. You seen them walls. And the walls on the outside ain't the only thing. Every partition is the same thing, pretty near; and a gent could stand behind these doors safe as if he was a mile away from a gun. Why? Because they's a nice little lining of the best steel you ever seen in the middle of 'em.
“Cost a lot. Sure. But look at us now. Suppose a posse was to rush the house. They bust into the kitchen side. Where are they? Just the same as if they hadn't got in at all. I bolt the doors from the inside of the big room, and they're shut out agin. Or suppose they take the big room? Then a couple of us slide out on this balcony and spray 'em with lead. This house ain't going to be took till the last room is filled full of the sheriff's men!”
He paused on the balcony and looked proudly over the big, baronial room below them. It seemed huger than ever from this viewpoint, and the men below them were dwarfed. The light of the lanterns did not extend all the way across it, but fell in pools here and there, gleaming faintly on the men below.
“But doesn't it make people suspicious to have a fort like this built on the hill?” asked Terry.
“Of course. If they knew. But they don't know, son, and they ain't going to find out the lining of this house till they try it out with lead.”
He brought Terry into one of the bedrooms and lighted a lamp. As the flare steadied in the big circular oil burner and the light spread, Terry made out a surprisingly comfortable apartment. There was not a bunk, but a civilized bed, beside which was a huge, tawny mountain-lion skin softening the floor. The window was curtained in some pleasant blue stuff, and there were a few spots of color on the wall—only calendars, some of them, but helping to give a livable impression for the place.
“Kate's work,” grinned Pollard proudly. “She's been fixing these rooms up all out of her own head. Never got no ideas out of me. Anything you might lack, son?”
Terry told him he would be very comfortable, and the big man wrung his hand again as he bade him good night.
“The best work that Denver ever done was bringing you to me,” he declared. “Which you'll find it out before I'm through. I'm going to give you a home!” And he strode away before Terry could answer.
The rather rare consciousness of having done a good deed swelled in the heart of Joe Pollard on his way down from the balcony. When he reached the floor below, he found that the four men had gone to bed and left Denver alone, drawn back from the light into a shadowy corner, where he was flanked by the gleam of a bottle of whisky on the one side and a shimmering glass on the other. Although Pollard was the nominal leader, he was in secret awe of the yegg. For Denver was an “in-and-outer.” Sometimes he joined them in the West; sometimes he “worked” an Eastern territory. He came and went as he pleased, and was more or less a law to himself. Moreover, he had certain qualities of silence and brooding that usually disturbed the leader. They troubled him now as he approached the squat, shapeless figure in the corner chair.
“What you think of him?” said Denver.
“A good kid and a clean-cut kid,” decided Joe Pollard judicially. “Maybe he ain't another Black Jack, but he's tolerable cool for a youngster. Stood up and looked me in the eye like a man when I had him cornered a while back. Good thing for him you come out when you did!”
“A good thing for you, Joe,” replied Denver Pete. “He'd of turned you into fertilizer, bo!”
“Maybe; maybe not. Maybe they's some things I could teach him about gun- slinging, Pete.”
“Maybe; maybe not,” parodied Denver. “You've learned a good deal about guns, Joe—quite a bit. But there's some things about gun fighting that nobody can learn. It's got to be born into 'em. Remember how Black Jack used to slide out his gat?”
“Yep. There was a man!”
“And Minter, too. There's a born gunman.”
“Sure. We all know Uncle Joe—damn his soul!”
“But the kid beat Uncle Joe fair and square from an even break—and beat him bad. Made his draw, held it so's Joe could partway catch up with him, and then drilled him clean!”
Pollard scratched his chin.
“I'd believe that if I seen it,” he declared.
“Pal, it wasn't Terry that done the talking; it was Gainor. He's seen a good deal of gunplay, and said that Terry's was the coolest he ever watched.”
“All right for that part of it,” said Joe Pollard. “Suppose he's fast— but can I use him? I like him well enough; I'll give him a good deal; but is he going to mean charity all the time he hangs out with me?”
“Maybe; maybe not,” chuckled Denver again. “Use him the way he can be used, and he'll be the best bargain you ever turned. Black Jack started you in business; Black Jack the Second will make you rich if you handle him right—and ruin you if you make a slip.”
“How come? He talks this 'honesty' talk pretty strong.”
“Gimme a chance to talk,” said Denver contemptuously. “Takes a gent that's used to reading the secrets of a safe to read the secrets of a gent's head. And I've read the secret of young Black Jack Hollis. He's a pile of dry powder, Joe. Throw in the spark and he'll explode so damned loud they'll hear him go off all over the country.”
“How?”
