A moment later, from the side door which led from the store into the main
body of the hotel, stepped the chunky form of Denver Pete, quick and
light of foot as ever. He went straight to the counter and asked for
matches, and as the storekeeper, still keeping half an eye upon the
formidable figure of Larrimer, turned for the matches, Denver spoke
softly from the side of his mouth to Terry--only in the lockstep line of
the prison do they learn to talk in this manner--gauging the carrying
power of the whisper with nice accuracy.
"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 tempted, and the certainty came to him that he would kill Larrimer.
And what made that certainty more sure was the appearance of his nemesis,
Denver Pete, in this crisis. As though, with sure scent 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 gaping.
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 fixed upon Terry.
"Bill," he said, "you seen anything of a spavined, long-horned, no-good
skunk 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 Jack'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 wrath. "I don't want painted wood. How can a gent
whittle 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 outskirts. 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 torrent of abuse died out in a crackle of curses. Terry Hollis stood
as one stunned. 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 deafen 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
determined to dodge the issue. He started toward the door, taking care
not to walk hastily enough to draw suspicion on him because of his
withdrawal, but to the heated brain of Larrimer all things were
suspicious. His long arm darted 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 volition.
"Who are you?"
"A stranger in these parts," said Terry slowly, and he looked down at the
floor.
He heard a murmur 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 fully. "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 line of his Colby ancestors, Kate Pollard with
her clear-seeing eyes. He saw her last of all. When the men were scorning
him for the way he had avoided this battle, she, at least, would
understand, and her understanding would be a mercy.
"Hollis is somewhere around," declared Larrimer, drawing back and biting
his lip. "I know it, damn well. His hoss is standing out yonder. I know
what'll fetch him. I'll shoot that hoss of his, and that'll bring him--if
young Black Jack is half the man they say he is! I ain't out to shoot
cowards--I want men!"
He strode to the door.
"Don't do it!" shouted Bill, the storekeeper.
"Shut up!" snapped Baldwin. "I know something. Shut up!"
That fierce, low voice reached the ear of Terry, and he understood that
it meant Baldwin had judged him as the whole world judged him. After all,
what difference did it make whether he killed or not? He was already
damned as a slayer of men by the name of his father before him.
Larrimer had turned with a roar.
"What d'you mean by stopping me, Bill? What in hell d'you mean by it?"
With the brightness of the door behind him, his bearded face was wolfish.
"Nothing," quavered Bill, this torrent of danger pouring about him.
"Except--that it ain't very popular around here--shooting hosses,
Larrimer."
"Damn you and your ideas," said Larrimer. "I'm going to go my own way. I
know what's best."
He reached the door, his hand went back to the butt of his revolver.
And then it snapped in Terry, that last restraint which had been at the
breaking-point all this time. He felt a warmth run through him--the
warmth of strength and the cold of a mysterious and evil happiness.
"Wait, Larrimer!"
The big man whirled as though he had heard a gun; there was a ring in the
voice of Terry like the ring down the barrel of a shotgun after it has
been cocked.
"You agin?" barked Larrimer.
"Me again. Larrimer, don't shoot the horse."
"Why not?"
"For the sake of your soul, my friend."
"Boys, ain't this funny? This gent is a sky-pilot, maybe?" He made a long
stride back.
"Stop where you are!" cried Terry.
He stood like a soldier with his heels together, straight, trembling. And
Larrimer stopped as though a blow had checked him.
"I may be your sky-pilot, Larrimer. But listen to sense. Do you really
mean you'd shoot that red horse in front of the hotel?"
"Ain't you heard me say it?"
"Then the Lord pity you, Larrimer!"
Ordinarily Larrimer's gun would have been out long before, but the change
from this man's humility of the moment before, his almost cringing
meekness, to his present defiance was so startling that Larrimer was
momentarily at sea.
"Damn my eyes," he remarked furiously, "this is funny, this is. Are you
preaching at me, kid? What d'you mean by that? Eh?"
"I'll tell you why. Face me squarely, will you? Your head up, and your
hands ready."
In spite of his rage and wonder, Larrimer instinctively obeyed, for the
words came snapping out like military commands.
"Now I'll tell you. You manhunting cur, I'm going to send you to hell
with your sins on your head. I'm going to kill you, Larrimer!"
It was so unexpected, so totally startling, that Larrimer blinked, raised
his head, and laughed.
But the son of Black Jack tore away all thought of laughter.
"Larrimer, I'm Terry Hollis. Get your gun!"
The wide mouth of Larrimer writhed silently from mirth to astonishment,
and then sinister rage. And though he was in the shadow against the door,
Terry saw the slow gleam in the face of the tall man--then his hand
whipped for the gun. It came cleanly out. There was no flap to his
holster, and the sight had been filed away to give more oiled and perfect
freedom to the draw. Years of patient practice had taught his muscles to
reflex in this one motion with a speed that baffled the eye. Fast as
light that draw seemed to those who watched, and the draw of Terry Hollis
appeared to hang in midair. His hand wavered, then clutched suddenly, and
they saw a flash of metal, not the actual motion of drawing the gun. Just
that gleam of the barrel at his hip, hardly clear of the holster, and
then in the dimness of the big room a spurt of flame and the boom of the
gun.
There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of the room. Larrimer's
gun had rattled on the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt arms
as though he were appealing for help, leaped into the air, and fell
heavily, with a force that vibrated the floor where Terry stood.
There was one heartbeat of silence.
Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the
body of Larrimer.
To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher,
afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse
and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his
boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.
"I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger work in this town," he
said. "But I'm going to leave it to you gentlemen to take the carrion
away. Shorty, I'm going back to the house. Are you ready to ride that
way?"
When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward, they found a neat,
circular splotch of purple exactly placed between the eyes.