“But why not? Why not Terry? He's a clean youngster, and he may turn out very well—in spite of his blood. I hope so. The Lord knows you've given him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck!”
He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over it.
“There's the old Vance talking,” she said warmly, a mist across her eyes. “I almost thought that part of you had died.”
He writhed inwardly. “By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out of nothing, everything poured into his hands—and now within ten days of his goal! Rather exciting, isn't it? Suppose he should stumble at the very threshold of his success? Eh?”
He pressed the point with singular insistence.
“Doesn't it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might fall—that he might do what I prophesied so long ago—shoot a man before he's twenty-five?”
She shrugged the supposition calmly away.
“My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he fell, after the schooling I've given him, I'd throw him out of my life— forever.”
He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he shrugged in turn. “Tush! Of course, that's impossible. Let's go down.”
CHAPTER 4
When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence Colby coming up the terrace from the river road on Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but would try to be on the alert. One ear flagged warily back. He went slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse. Yet, when the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a creature of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave to the side- spring with supple grace and then sent the stallion on up the hill.
Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair was blowing about his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has done a hard day's work and is ready to rest. He came close to the veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly, curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.
“The killer is no longer a killer,” laughed Terry. “Look him over, Uncle Vance. A beauty, eh?”
Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.
“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”
“Not much more. A leggy horse can't stand mountain work—or any other work, for that matter, except a ride in the park.”
“I suppose you're right. He's a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye, but I see that you've beaten him.”
“Beaten him?” He shook his head. “We reached a gentleman's agreement. As long as I wear spurs, he'll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise he'll keep on fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop tormenting him, he'll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre. Eh, boy?”
He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them. The horse stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt came in his eyes.
“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.
But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket.
The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them. Just as he turned, the mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture—a man with long black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping through a dusty street with shots barking behind him. It came suddenly as a revelation, and left him downheaded with the thought.
“What is it, Vance?” asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.
“Nothing.” Then he added abruptly: “I'm going for a jaunt for a few days, Elizabeth.”
She grew gloomy.
“Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?”
“Not at all. I'm going to be back here in ten days and drink Terry's long life and happiness across the birthday dinner table.”
He marvelled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her face.
“You noticed that—his gentleman's agreement with Le Sangre? I've made him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight—men argue and agree.”
“I've noticed that he never has trouble with the cow-punchers.”
“They've seen him box,” chuckled Elizabeth. “Besides, Terry isn't the sort that troublemakers like to pick on. He has an ugly look when he's angry.”
“H'm,” murmured Vance. “I've noticed that. But as long as he keeps to his fists, he'll do no harm. But what is the reason for surrounding him with guns, Elizabeth?”
“A very good reason. He loves them, you know. Anything from a shotgun to a derringer is a source of joy to Terence. And not a day goes by that he doesn't handle them.”
