It was some time before Terry could sleep, though it was now very late. When he put out the light and slipped into the bed, the darkness brought a bright flood of memories of the day before him. It seemed to him that half a lifetime had been crowded into the brief hours since he was fired on the ranch¹ that morning. Behind everything stirred the ugly face of Denver as a sort of controlling nemesis². It seemed to him that the chunky little man had been pulling the wires all the time while he, Terry Hollis, danced in response. Not a flattering thought.  
Nervously³, Terry got out of bed and went to the window. The night was cool, cut crisp rather than chilling. His eye went over the velvet⁴ blackness of the mountain slope above him to the ragged⁵ line of the crest⁶—then a dizzy plunge⁷ to the brightness of the stars beyond. The very sense of distance was soothing⁸; it washed the gloom and the troubles away from him. He breathed deep of the fragrance⁹ of the pines and then went back to his bed.
 
He had hardly taken his place in it when the sleep began to well up over his brain—waves of shadows running out of corners of his mind. And then suddenly he was wide awake, alert.
 
Someone had opened the door. There had been no sound; merely a change in the air currents of the room, but there was also the sense of another presence so clearly that Terry almost imagined he could hear the breathing.
 
He was beginning to shrug¹⁰ the thought away and smile at his own nervousness, when he heard that unmistakable sound of a foot pressing the floor. And then he remembered that he had left his gun belt far from the bed. In a burning moment that lesson was printed in his mind, and would never be forgotten. Slowly as possible and without sound, he drew up his feet little by little, spread his arms gently on either side of him, and made himself tense for the effort. Whoever it was that entered, they might be taken by surprise. He dared not lift his head to look; and he was on the verge¹¹ of leaping up and at the approaching noise, when a whisper came to him softly: "Black Jack¹²!"
 
The soft voice, the name itself, thrilled him. He sat erect¹³ in the bed and made out, dimly, the form of Kate Pollard in the blackness. She would have been quite invisible, save that the square of the window was almost exactly behind her. He made out the faint whiteness of the hand which held her dressing¹⁴ robe at the breast.
 
She did not start back, though she showed that she was startled by the suddenness of his movement by growing the faintest shade taller and lifting her head a little. Terry watched her, bewildered.
 
"I been waiting to see you," said Kate. "I want to—I mean—to—talk to you."
 
He could think of nothing except to blurt¹⁵ with sublime¹⁶ stupidity: "It's good of you. Won't you sit down?"
 
The girl brought him to his senses with a sharp "Easy! Don't talk out. Do you know what'd happen if Dad found me here?"
 
"I—" began Terry.
 
But she helped him smoothly¹⁷ to the logical conclusion. "He'd blow your head off, Black Jack; and he'd do it—pronto. If you are going to talk, talk soft—like me."
 
She sat down on the side of the bed so gently that there was no creaking.
They peered at each other through the darkness for a time.
She was not whispering, but her voice was pitched almost as low, and he wondered at the variety of expression she was able to pack in the small range of that murmur¹⁸. "I suppose I'm a fool for coming. But I was born to love chances. Born for it!" She lifted her head and laughed.
 
It amazed Terry to hear the shaken flow of her breath and catch the glinting outline of her face. He found himself leaning forward a little; and he began to wish for a light, though perhaps it was an unconscious wish.
 
"First," she said, "what d'you know about Dad—and Denver Pete?"
 
"Practically nothing."
 
She was silent for a moment, and he saw her hand go up and prop¹⁹ her chin while she considered what she could say next.
 
"They's so much to tell," she confessed, "that I can't put it short. I'll tell you this much, Black Jack—"
 
"That isn't my name, if you please."
 
"It'll be your name if you stay around these parts with Dad very long," she replied, with an odd emphasis. "But where you been raised, Terry? And what you been doing with yourself?"
 
He felt that this giving of the first name was a tribute, in some subtle manner. It enabled him, for instance, to call her Kate, and he decided²⁰ with a thrill that he would do so at the first opportunity. He reverted²¹ to her question.
 
"I suppose," he admitted gloomily, "that I've been raised to do pretty much as I please—and the money I've spent has been given to me."
 
The girl shook her head with conviction.
 
"It ain't possible," she declared.
 
"Why not?"
 
"No son of Black Jack would live off somebody's charity."
 
He felt the blood tingle²² in his cheeks, and a real anger against her rose. Yet he found himself explaining humbly²³.
 
"You see, I was taken when I wasn't old enough to decide for myself. I was only a baby. And I was raised to depend upon Elizabeth Cornish. I—I didn't even know the name of my father until a few days ago."
 
The girl gasped²⁴. "You didn't know your father—not your own father?" She laughed again scornfully. "Terry, I ain't green enough to believe that!"
 
He fell into a dignified²⁵ silence, and presently the girl leaned closer, as though she were peering to make out his face. Indeed, it was now possible to dimly make out objects in the room. The window was filled with an increasing brightness, and presently a shaft²⁶ of pale light began to slide across the floor, little by little. The moon had pushed up above the crest of the mountain.
 
"Did that make you mad?" queried²⁷ the girl. "Why?"
 
"You seemed to doubt what I said," he remarked stiffly.
 
"Why not? You ain't under oath, or anything, are you?"
 
Then she laughed again. "You're a queer one all the way through. This
Elizabeth Cornish—got anything to do with the Cornish ranch?"
"I presume she owns it, very largely."
 
The girl nodded. "You talk like a book. You must of studied a terrible pile."
 
"Not so much, really."
 
"H'm," said the girl, and seemed to reserve judgment²⁸.
 
Then she asked with a return of her former sharpness: "How come you gambled today at Pedro's?"
 
"I don't know. It seemed the thing to do—to kill tim............