There was no Kate at breakfast the next morning. She had left the house at dawn with her horse.  
"May be night before she comes back," said her father. "No telling how far she'll go. May be tomorrow before she shows up."
 
It made Terry thoughtful for reasons which he himself did not understand. He had a peculiar¹ desire to climb into the saddle on El Sangre and trail her across the hills. But he was very quickly brought to the reality that if he chose to make himself a laboring² man and work out the three hundred dollars he would not take back from Joe Pollard, the big man was now disposed to make him live up to his word.
 
He was sent out with an ax and ordered to attack a stout⁴ grove⁵ of the pines for firewood. But he quickly resigned himself to the work. Whatever gloom he felt disappeared with the first stroke that sunk the edge deep into the soft wood. The next stroke broke out a great chip, and a resinous⁶, fresh smell came up to him.
 
He made quick work of the first tree, working the morning chill out of his body, and as he warmed to his labor³, the long muscles of arms and shoulders limbering, the blows fell in a shower. The sturdy pines fell one by one, and he stripped them of branches with long, sweeping⁷ blows of the ax, shearing⁸ off several at a stroke. He was not an expert axman, but he knew enough about that cunning craft to make his blows tell, and a continual desire to sing welled up in him.
 
Once, to breathe after the heavy labor, he stepped to the edge of the little grove. The sun was sparkling in the tops of the trees; the valley dropped far away below him. He felt as one who stands on the top of the world. There was flash and gleam of red; there stood El Sangre in the corral below him; the stallion raised his head and whinnied in reply to the master's whistle.
 
A great, sweet peace dropped on the heart of Terry Hollis. Now he felt he was at home. He went back to his work.
 
But in the midmorning Joe Pollard came to him and grunted⁹ at the swath
Terry had driven into the heart of the lodgepole pines.
"I wanted junk for the fire," he protested; "not enough to build a house. But I got a little errand for you in town, Terry. You can give El Sangre a stretching down the road?"
 
"Of course."
 
It gave Terry a little prickling feeling of resentment¹⁰ to be ordered about. But he swallowed the resentment. After all, this was labor of his own choosing, though he could not but wonder a little, because Joe Pollard no longer pressed him to take back the money he had lost. And he reverted¹¹ to the talk of Kate the night before. That three hundred dollars was now an anchor holding him to the service of her father. And he remembered, with a touch of dismay, that it might take a year of ordinary wages to save three hundred dollars. Or more than a year.
 
It was impossible to be downhearted long, however. The morning was as fresh as a rose, and the four men came out of the house with Pollard to see El Sangre dancing under the saddle. Terry received the commission for a box of shotgun cartridges¹² and the money to pay for them.
 
"And the change," said Pollard liberally, "don't worry me none. Step around and make yourself to home in town. About coming back—well, when I send a man into town, I figure on him making a day of it. S'long, Terry!"
 
"Hey," called Slim, "is El Sangre gun-shy?"
 
"I suppose so."
 
The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off.
 
"Here's to try him."
 
The gun flashed into Slim's hand and boomed. El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack¹³-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise. The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship.
 
"But what'll he do if you pull a gun yourself?" asked Joe Pollard, showing a sudden concern.
 
"He'll stand for it—long enough," said Terry. "Try him!"
 
There was a devil in Slim that morning. He snatched up a shining bit of quartz¹⁴ and hurled¹⁵ it—straight at El Sangre! There was no warning—just a jerk of the arm and the stone came flashing.
 
"Try your gun—on that!"
 
The words were torn off short. The heavy gun had twitched¹⁶ into the hand of Terry, exploded, and the gleaming quartz puffed¹⁷ into a shower of bright particles that danced toward the earth. El Sangre flew into a paroxysm of educated bucking¹⁸ of the most advanced school. The steady voice of Terry Hollis brought him at last to a quivering stop. The rider was stiff in the saddle, his mouth a white, straight line.
 
He shoved his revolver deliberately¹⁹ back into the holster.
 
The four men had drawn²⁰ together, still muttering with wonder. Luck may have had something to do with the success ............