It was joyous2, free, terrible in its force—that wish to slay3. The emotion had grown, held back by the very force of a mental thread of reason, until, at the very moment when the thread was about to fray4 and snap, and he would be flung into sudden action, the booming voice of Joe Pollard had cleared his mind as an acid clears a cloudy precipitate5. He saw himself for the first time in several moments, and what he saw made him shudder6.
And still in fear of himself he swung El Sangre and put him down the slope recklessly. Never in his life had he ridden as he rode in those first five minutes down the pitch of the hill. He gave El Sangre his head to pick his own way, and he confined his efforts to urging the great stallion along. The blood-bay went like the wind, passing up-jutting boulders7 with a swish of gravel8 knocked from his plunging9 hoofs10 against the rock.
Even in Terry's passion of self-dread he dimly appreciated the prowess of the horse, and when they shot onto the level going of the valley road, he called El Sangre out of the mad gallop11 and back to the natural pace, a gait as swinging and smooth as running water—yet still the road poured beneath them at the speed of an ordinary gallop. It was music to Terry Hollis, that matchless gait. He leaned and murmured to the pricking12 ears with that soft, gentle voice which horses love. The glorious head of El Sangre went up a little, his tail flaunted13 somewhat more proudly; from the quiver of his nostrils14 to the ringing beat of his black hoofs he bespoke15 his confidence that he bore the king of men on his back.
And the pride of the great horse brought back some of Terry's own waning16 self-confidence. His father had been up in him as he faced Slim Dugan, he knew. Once more he had escaped from the commission of a crime. But for how long would he succeed in dodging17 that imp1 of the perverse18 which haunted him?
It was like the temptation of a drug—to strike just once, and thereafter to be raised above himself, take to himself the power of evil which is greater than the power of good. The blow he struck at the sheriff had merely served to launch him on his way. To strike down was not now what he wanted, but to kill! To feel that once he had accomplished19 the destiny of some strong man, to turn a creature of mind and soul, ambition and hope, at a single stroke into so many pounds of flesh, useless, done for. What could be more glorious? What could be more terrible? And the desire to strike, as he had looked into the sneering20 face of Slim Dugan, had been almost overmastering.
Sooner or later he would strike that blow. Sooner or later he would commit the great and controlling crime. And the rest of his life would be a continual evasion21 of the law.
If they would only take him into their midst, the good and the law- abiding22 men of the mountains! If they would only accept him by word or deed and give him a chance to prove that he was honest! Even then the battle would be hard, against temptation; but they were too smugly sure that his downfall was certain. Twice they had rejected him without cause. How long would it be before they actually raised their hands against him? How long would it be before they violently put him in the class of his father?
Grinding his teeth, he swore that if that time ever came when they took his destiny into their own hands, he would make it a day to be marked in red all through the mountains!
The cool, fresh wind against his face blew the sullen23 anger away. And when he came close to the town, he was his old self.
A man on a tall gray, with the legs of speed and plenty of girth at the cinches, where girth means lung power, twisted out of a side trail and swung past El Sangre at a fast gallop. The blood-bay snorted and came hard against the bit in a desire to follow. On the range, when he led his wild band, no horse had ever passed El Sangre and hardly the voice of the master could keep him back now. Terry loosed him. He did not break into a gallop, but fled down the road like an arrow, and the gray came back to him slowly and surely until the rider twisted around and swore in surprise.
He touched his mount with the spurs; there was a fresh start from the gray, a lunge that kicked a little spurt24 of dust into the nostrils of El Sangre. He snorted it out. Terry released his head completely, and now, as though in scorn refusing to break into his sweeping25 gallop, El Sangre flung himself ahead to the full of his natural pace.
And the gray came back steadily26. The town was shoving up at them at the end of the road more and more clearly. The rider of the gray began to curse. He was leaning forward, jockeying his horse, but still El Sangre hurled27 himself forward powerfully, smoothly28. They passed the first shanty29 on the outskirts30 of the town with the red head of the stallion at the hip31 of the other. Before they straightened into the main street, El Sangre had shoved his nose past the outstretched head of the gray. Then the other rider jerked back on his reins32 with a resounding33 oath. Terry imitated; one call to El Sangre brought him back to a gentle amble34.
"Going to sell this damned skate," declared the stranger, a lean-faced man of middle age with big, patient,
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