“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
