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
