When the door closed on her, Terry remained standing¹ in the middle of the room watching the flame in the oil lamp she had lighted flare² and rise at the corner, and then steady down to an even line of yellow; but he was not seeing it; he was listening to that peculiar³ silence in the house. It seemed to have spread over the entire village, and he heard no more of those casual noises which he had noticed on his coming.  
He went to the window and raised it to let whatever wind was abroad enter the musty warmth of the room. He raised the sash with stealthy caution, wondering at his own stealthiness. And he was oddly glad when the window rose without a squeak⁴. He leaned out and looked up and down the street. It was unchanged. Across the way a door flung open, a child darted⁵ out with shrill⁶ laughter and dodged⁷ about the corner of the house, escaping after some mischief⁸.
 
After that the silence again, except that before long a murmur⁹ began on the veranda¹⁰ beneath him where the half-dozen obscure figures had been sitting when he entered. Why should they be mumbling¹¹ to themselves? He thought he could distinguish the voice of the widow Rickson among the rest, but he shrugged¹² that idle thought away and turned back into his room. He sat down on the side of the bed and pulled off his boots, but the minute they were off he was ill at ease. There was something oppressive about the atmosphere of this rickety old hotel. What sort of a world was this he had entered, with its whispers, its cold glances?
 
He cast himself back on his bed, determined¹³ to be at ease. Nevertheless, his heart kept bumping absurdly. Now, Terry began to grow angry. With the feeling that there was danger in the air of Craterville—for him—there came a nervous setting of the muscles, a desire to close on someone and throttle¹⁴ the secret of this hostility¹⁵. At this point he heard a light tapping at the door. Terry sat bolt upright on the bed.
 
There are all kinds of taps. There are bold, heavy blows on the door that mean danger without; there are careless, conversational¹⁶ rappings; but this was a furtive¹⁷ tap, repeated after a pause as though it contained a code message.
 
First there was a leap of fear—then cold quiet of the nerves. He was surprised at himself. He found himself stepping into whatever adventure lay toward him with the lifting of the spirits. It was a stimulus¹⁸.
 
He called cheerfully: "Come in!"
 
And the moment he had spoken he was off the bed, noiselessly, and half the width of the room away. It had come to him as he spoke¹⁹ that it might be well to shift from the point from which his voice had been heard.
 
The door opened swiftly—so swiftly was it opened and closed that it made a faint whisper in the air, oddly like a sigh. And there was no click of the lock either in the opening or the closing. Which meant an incalculably swift and dexterous²⁰ manipulation with the fingers. Terry found himself facing a short-throated man with heavy shoulders; he wore a shapeless black hat bunched on his head as though the whole hand had grasped the crown and shoved the hat into place. It sat awkwardly to one side. And the hat typified the whole man. There was a sort of shifty readiness about him. His eyes flashed in the lamplight as they glanced at the bed, and then flicked²¹ back toward Terry. And a smile began somewhere in his face and instantly went out. It was plain that he had understood the maneuver²².
 
He continued to survey Terry insolently²³ for a moment without announcing himself. Then he stated: "You're him, all right!"
 
"Am I?" said Terry, regarding this unusual visitor with increasing suspicion. "But I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage."
 
The big-shouldered man raised a stubby hand. He had an air of one who deprecates, and at the same time lets another into a secret. He moved across the room with short steps that made no sound, and gave him a peculiar appearance of drifting rather than walking. He picked up a chair and placed it down on the rug beside the bed and seated himself in it.
 
Aside from the words he had spoken, since he entered the room he had made no more noise than a phantom²⁴.
 
"You're him, all right," he repeated, balancing back in the chair. But he gathered his toes under him, so that he remained continually poised²⁵ in spite of the seeming awkwardness of his position.
 
"Who am I?" asked Terry.
 
"Why, Black Jack²⁶'s kid. It's printed in big type all over you."
 
His keen eyes continued to bore at Terry as though he were striving to read features beneath a mask. Terry could see his visitor's face more clearly now. It was square, with a powerfully muscled jaw²⁷ and features that had a battered²⁸ look. Suddenly he teetered forward in his chair and dropped his elbows aggressively on his knees.
 
"D'you know what they're talking about downstairs?"
 
"Haven't the slightest idea."
 
"You ain't! The old lady is trying to fix up a bad time for you."
 
"She's raising a crowd?"
 
"Doing her best. I dunno what it'll come to. The boys are stirring a little. But I think it'll be all words and no action. Four-flushers, most of 'em. Besides, they say you bumped old Minter for a goal; and they don't like the idea of messing up with you. They'll just talk. If they try anything besides their talk—well, you and me can fix 'em!"
 
Terry slipped into the only other chair which the room provided, but he slid far down in it, so that his holster was free and the gun butt²⁹ conveniently under his hand.
 
"You seem a charitable sort," he said. "Why do you throw in with me?"
 
"And you don't know who I am?" said the other.
 
He chuckled³⁰ noiselessly, his mouth stretching to remarkable³¹ proportions.
 
"I'm sorry," said Terry.
 
"Why, kid, I'm Denver. I'm your old man's pal³², Denver! I'm him that done the Silver Junction³³ job with old Black Jack, and a lot more jobs, when you come to that!"
 
He laughed again. "They were getting sort of warm for me out in the big noise. So I grabbed me a side-door Pullman and took a trip out to the old beat. And think of bumping into Black Jack's boy right off the bat!"
 
He became more sober. "Say, kid, ain't you got a glad hand for me? Ain't you ever heard Black Jack talk?"
 
"He died," said Terry soberly, "before I was a year old."
 
"The hell!" murmured the other. "The hell! Poor kid. That was a rotten lay, all right. If I'd known about that, I'd of—but I didn't. Well, let it go. Here we are together. And you're the sort of a sidekick I need. Black Jack, we're going to trim this town to a fare-thee-well!"
 
"My name is Hollis," said Terry. "Terence Hollis."
 
"Terence hell," snorted the other. "You're Black Jack's kid, ain't you? And ain't his moniker good enough for you to work under? Why, kid, that's a trademark³⁵ most of us would give ten thousand cash for!"
 
He broke off and regarded Terry with a growing satisfaction.
 
"You're his kid, all right. This is just the way Black Jack would of sat—cool as ice—with a gang under him talking about stretching his neck. And now, bo, hark to me sing! I got the job fixed³⁶ and—But wait a minute. What you been doing all these years? Black Jack was known when he was your age!"
 
With a peculiar thrill of awe³⁷ and of aversion Terry watched the face of the man who had known his father so well. He tried to make himself believe that twenty-four years ago Denver might have been quite another type of man. But it was impossible to re-create that face other than as a bulldog in the human flesh. The craft and the courage of a fighter were written large in those features.
 
"I've been leadi............