"That bird's after you. Crazy with booze in the head, but steady in the hand. One of two things. Clear out right now, or else say the word and I'll stay and help you get rid of him."
For the first time in his life fear swept over Terry—fear of himself compared with which the qualm he had felt after turning from Slim Dugan that morning had been nothing. For the second time in one day he was being tempted2, and the certainty came to him that he would kill Larrimer. And what made that certainty more sure was the appearance of his nemesis3, Denver Pete, in this crisis. As though, with sure scent4 for evil, Denver had come to be present and watch the launching of Terry into a career of crime. But it was not the public that Terry feared. It was himself. His moral determination was a dam which blocked fierce currents in him that were struggling to get free. And a bullet fired at Larrimer would be the thing that burst the dam and let the flood waters of self-will free. Thereafter what stood in his path would be crushed and swept aside.
He said to Denver: "This is my affair, not yours. Stand away, Denver. And pray for me."
A strange request. It shattered even the indomitable self-control of
Denver and left him gaping5.
Larrimer, having completed his survey of the dim interior of the store, stalked down upon them. He saw Terry for the first time, paused, and his bloodshot little eyes ran up and down the body of the stranger. He turned to the storekeeper, but still half of his attention was fixed6 upon Terry.
"Bill," he said, "you seen anything of a spavined, long-horned, no-good skunk7 named Hollis around town today?"
And Terry could see him wait, quivering, half in hopes that the stranger would show some anger at this denunciation.
"Ain't seen nobody by that name," said Bill mildly. "Maybe you're chasing a wild goose? Who told you they was a gent named Hollis around?"
"Black Jack8's son," insisted Larrimer. "Wild-goose chase, hell! I was told he was around by a gent named—"
"These ain't the kind of matches I want!" cried Denver Pete, with a strangely loud-voiced wrath9. "I don't want painted wood. How can a gent whittle10 one of these damned matches down to toothpick size? Gimme plain wood, will you?"
The storekeeper, wondering, made the exchange. Drunken Larrimer had roved on, forgetful of his unfinished sentence. For the very purpose of keeping that sentence unfinished, Denver Pete remained on the scene, edging toward the outskirts11. Now was to come, in a single moment, both the temptation and the test of Terry Hollis, and well Denver knew that if Larrimer fell with a bullet in his body there would be an end of Terry Hollis in the world and the birth of a new soul—the true son of Black Jack!
"It's him that plugged Sheriff Minter," went on Larrimer. "I hear tell as how he got the sheriff from behind and plugged him. This town ain't a place for a man-killing houn' dog like young Black Jack, and I'm here to let him know it!"
The torrent12 of abuse died out in a crackle of curses. Terry Hollis stood as one stunned13. Yet his hand stayed free of his gun.
"Suppose we go on to the hotel and eat?" he asked Jack Baldwin softly. "No use staying and letting that fellow deafen14 us with his oaths, is there?"
"Better than a circus," declared Baldwin. "Wouldn't miss it. Since old man Harkness died, I ain't heard cussing to match up with Larrimer's. Didn't know that he had that much brains."
It seemed that the fates were surely against Terry this day. Yet still he determined15 to dodge16 the issue. He started toward the door, taking care not to walk hastily enough to draw suspicion on him because of his withdrawal17, but to the heated brain of Larrimer all things were suspicious. His long arm darted18 out as Terry passed him; he jerked the smaller man violently back.
"Wait a minute. I don't know you, kid. Maybe you got the information I want?"
"I'm afraid not."
Terry blinked. It seemed to him that if he looked again at that vicious, contracted face, his gun would slip into his hand of its own volition19.
"Who are you?"
"A stranger in these parts," said Terry slowly, and he looked down at the floor.
He heard a murmur20 from the men at the other end of the room. He knew that small, buzzing sound. They were wondering at the calmness with which he "took water."
"So's Hollis a stranger in these parts," said Larrimer, facing his victim more fully21. "What I want to know is about the gent that owns the red hoss in front of the store. Ever hear of him?"
Terry was silent. By a vast effort he was able to shake his head. It was hard, bitterly hard, but every good influence that had ever come into his life now stood beside him and fought with and for him—Elizabeth Cornish, the long and fictitious
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