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 peculiar 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 laboring 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 stout grove 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
resinous, 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 labor, 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, sweeping blows of
the ax, shearing 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 grunted 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 resentment 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
reverted 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 cartridges 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 jack-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
quartz and hurled 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 twitched into the hand
of Terry, exploded, and the gleaming quartz puffed into a shower of
bright particles that danced toward the earth. El Sangre flew into a
paroxysm of educated bucking 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 deliberately back into the holster.
The four men had drawn together, still muttering with wonder. Luck may
have had something to do with the success of that snapshot, but it was
such a feat of marksmanship as would be remembered and talked about.
"Dugan!" said Terry huskily.
Slim lunged forward, but he was ill at ease.
"Well, kid?"
"It seemed to me," said Terry, "that you threw that stone at El Sangre. I
hope I'm wrong?"
"Maybe," growled Slim. He flashed a glance at his companions, not at all
eager to push this quarrel forward to a conclusion in spite of his known
prowess. He had been a little irritated by the adulation which had been
shown to the son of Black Jack the night before. He was still more
irritated by the display of fine riding. For horsemanship and clever
gunplay were the two main feathers in the cap of Slim Dugan. He had
thrown the stone simply to test the qualities of this new member of the
gang; the snapshot had stunned him. So he glanced at his companions. If
they smiled, it meant that they took the matter lightly. But they were
not smiling; they met his glance with expressions of uniform gravity. To
torment a nervous horse is something which does not fit with the ways of
the men of the mountain desert, even at their roughest. Besides, there
was an edgy irritability about Slim Dugan which had more than once won
him black looks. They wanted to see him tested now by a foeman who seemed
worthy of his mettle. And Slim saw that common desire in his flickering
side glance. He turned a cold eye on Terry.
"Maybe," he repeated. "But maybe I meant to see what you could do with a
gun."
"I thought so," said Terry through his teeth. "Steady, boy!"
El Sangre became a rock for firmness. There was not a quiver in one of
his long, racing muscles. It was a fine tribute to the power of the
rider.
"I thought you might be trying out my gun," repeated Terry. "Are you
entirely satisfied?"
He leaned a little in the saddle. Slim moistened his lips. It was a hard
question to answer. The man in the saddle had become a quivering bundle
of nerves; Slim could see the twitching of the lips, and he knew what it
meant. Instinctively he fingered one of the broad bright buttons of his
shirt. A man who could hit a glittering thrown stone would undoubtedly be
able to hit that stationary button. The thought had elements in it that
were decidedly unpleasant. But he had gone too far. He dared not recede
now if he wished to hold up his head again among his fellows--and fear of
death had never yet controlled the actions of Slim Dugan.
"I dunno," he remarked carelessly. "I'm a sort of curious gent. It takes
more than one lucky shot to make me see the light."
The lips of Terry worked a moment. The companions of Slim Dugan scattered
of one accord to either side. There was no doubting the gravity of the
crisis which had so suddenly sprung up. As for Joe Pollard, he stood in
the doorway in the direct line projected from Terry to Slim and beyond.
There was very little sentiment in the body of Joe Pollard. Slim had
always been a disturbing factor in the gang. Why not? He bit his lips
thoughtfully.
"Dugan," said Terry at length, "curiosity is a very fine quality, and I
admire a man who has it. Greatly. Now, you may notice that my gun is in
the holster again. Suppose you try me again and see how fast I can get it
out of the leather--and hit a target."
The challenge was entirely direct. There was a perceptible tightening in
the muscles of the men. They were nerving themselves to hear the crack of
a gun at any instant. Slim Dugan, gathering his nerve power, fenced for a
moment more of time. His narrowing eyes were centering on one spot on
Terry's body--the spot at which he would attempt to drive his bullet, and
he chose the pocket of Terry's shirt. It steadied him, gave him his old
self-confidence to have found that target. His hand and his brain grew
steady, and the thrill of the fighter's love of battle entered him.
"What sort of a target d'you want?" he asked.
"I'm not particular," said Hollis. "Anything will do for me--even a
button!"
It jarred home to Slim--the very thought he had had a moment before. He
felt his certainty waver, slip from him. Then the voice of Pollard boomed
out at them:
"Keep them guns in their houses! You hear me talk? The first man that
makes a move I'm going to drill! Slim, get back into the house. Terry,
you damn meateater, git on down that hill!"
Terry did not move, but Slim Dugan stirred uneasily, turned, and said:
"It's up to you, chief. But I'll see this through sooner or later!"
And not until then did Terry turn his horse and go down the hill without
a backward look.