It was as if a gate which had hitherto been closed against him in the
Pollard house were now opened. They no longer held back from Terry, but
admitted him freely to their counsels. But the first person to whom he
spoke was Slim Dugan. There was a certain nervousness about Slim this
evening, and a certain shame. For he felt that in the morning, to an
extent, he had backed down from the quarrel with young Black Jack. The
killing of Larrimer now made that reticence of the morning even more
pointed than it had been before. With all these things taken into
consideration, Slim Dugan was in the mood to fight and die; for he felt
that his honor was concerned. A single slighting remark to Terry, a
single sneering side glance, would have been a signal for gunplay. And
everyone knew it.
The moment there was silence the son of Black Jack went straight to Slim
Dugan.
"Slim," he said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "a fellow isn't
himself before noon. I've been thinking over that little trouble we had
this morning, and I've made up my mind that if there were any fault it
was mine for taking a joke too seriously. At any rate, if it's agreeable
to you, Slim, I'd like to shake hands and call everything square. But if
there's going to be any ill will, let's have it out right now."
Slim Dugan wrung the hand of Terry without hesitation.
"If you put it that way," he said cordially, "I don't mind saying that I
was damned wrong to heave that stone at the hoss. And I apologize,
Terry."
And so everything was forgotten. Indeed, where there had been enmity
before, there was now friendship. And there was a breath of relief drawn
by every member of the gang. The peacemaking tendency of Hollis had more
effect on the others than a dozen killings. They already granted that he
was formidable. They now saw that he was highly desirable also.
Dinner that night was a friendly affair, except that Kate stayed in her
room with a headache. Johnny the Chinaman smuggled a tray to her. Oregon
Charlie went to the heart of matters with one of his rare speeches:
"You hear me talk, Hollis. She's mad because you've stepped off. She'll
get over it all right."
Oregon Charlie had a right to talk. It was an open secret that he had
loved Kate faithfully ever since he joined the gang. But apparently Terry
Hollis cared little about the moods of the girl. He was the center of
festivities that evening until an interruption from the outside formed a
diversion. It came in the form of a hard rider; the mutter of his hoofs
swept to the door, and Phil Marvin, having examined the stranger from the
shuttered loophole beside the entrance, opened the door to him at once.
"It's Sandy," he fired over his shoulder in explanation.
A weary-looking fellow came into the room, swinging his hat to knock the
dust off it, and loosening the bandanna at his throat. The drooping, pale
mustache explained his name. Two words were spoken, and no more.
"News?" said Pollard.
"News," grunted Sandy, and took a place at the table.
Terry had noted before that there were always one or two extra places
laid; he had always liked the suggestion of hospitality, but he was
rather in doubt about this guest. He ate with marvellous expedition,
keeping his lean face close to the table and bolting his food like a
hungry dog. Presently he drained his coffee cup, arranged his mustache
with painful care, and seemed prepared to talk.
"First thing," he said now--and utter silence spread around the table as
he began to talk--"first thing is that McGuire is coming. I seen him on
the trail, cut to the left and took the short way. He ought to be loping
in almost any minute."
Terry saw the others looking straight at Pollard; the leader was
thoughtful for a moment.
"Is he coming with a gang, Sandy?"
"Nope--alone."
"He was always a nervy cuss. Someday--"
He left the sentence unfinished. Denver had risen noiselessly.
"I'm going to beat it for my bunk," he announced. "Let me know when the
sheriff is gone."
"Sit where you are, Denver. McGuire ain't going to lay hands on you."
"Sure he ain't," agreed Denver. "But I ain't partial to having guys lay
eyes on me, neither. Some of you can go out and beat up trouble. I like
to stay put."
And he glided out of the room with no more noise than a sliding shadow.
He had hardly disappeared when a heavy hand beat at the door.
"That's McGuire," announced Pollard. "Let him in, Phil." So saying, he
twitched his gun out of the holster, spun the cylinder, and dropped it
back.
"Don't try nothing till you see me put my hand into my beard, boys. He
don't mean much so long as he's come alone."
Marvin drew back the door. Terry saw a man with shoulders of martial
squareness enter. And there was a touch of the military in his brisk step
and the curt nod he sent at Marvin as he passed the latter. He had not
taken off his sombrero. It cast a heavy shadow across the upper part of
his worn, sad face.
"Evening, sheriff," came from Pollard, and a muttered chorus from the
others repeated the greeting. The sheriff cast his glance over them like
a schoolteacher about to deliver a lecture.
"Evening, boys."
"Sit down, McGuire."
"I'm only staying a minute. I'll talk standing." It was a declaration of
war.
"I guess this is the first time I been up here, Pollard?"
"The very first, sheriff."
"Well, if I been kind of neglectful, it ain't that I'm not interested in
you-all a heap!"
He brought it out with a faint smile; there was no response to that
mirth.
"Matter of fact, I been keeping my eye on you fellows right along. Now, I
ain't up here to do no accusing. I'm up here to talk to you man to man.
They's been a good many queer things happen. None of 'em in my county,
mind you, or I might have done some talking to you before now. But they's
been a lot of queer things happen right around in the mountains; and some
of 'em has traced back kind of close to Joe Pollard's house as a starting
point. I ain't going to go any further. If I'm wrong, they ain't any harm
done; if I'm right, you know what I mean. But I tell you this, boys--
we're a long-sufferin' lot around these parts, but they's some things
that we don't stand for, and one of 'em that riles us particular much is
when a gent that lays out to be a regular hardworking rancher--even if he
ain't got much of a ranch to talk about and work about--takes mankillers
under their wings. It ain't regular, and it ain't popular around these
parts. I guess you know what I mean."
Terry expected Pollard to jump to his feet. But there was no such
response. The other men stared down at the table, their lips working.
Pollard alone met the eye of the sheriff.
The sheriff changed the direction of his glance. Instantly, it fell on
Terry and stayed there.
"You're the man I mean; you're Terry Hollis, Black Jack's son?"
Terry imitated the others and did not reply.
"Oh, they ain't any use beating about the bush. You got Black Jack's
blood in you. That's plain. I remember your old man well enough."
Terry rose slowly from his chair.
"I think I'm not disputing that, sheriff. As a matter of fact, I'm very
proud of my father."
"I think you are," said the sheriff gravely. "I think you are--damned
proud of him. So proud you might even figure on imitating what he done in
the old days."
"Perhaps," said Terry. The imp of the perverse was up in him now, urging
him on.
"Step soft, sheriff," cried Pollard suddenly, as though he sensed a
crisis of which the others were unaware. "Terry, keep hold on yourself!"
The sheriff waved the cautionary advice away.
"My nerves are tolerable good, Pollard," he said coldly. "The kid ain't
scaring me none. And now hark to me, Black Jack. You've got away with two
gents already--two that's known, I mean. Minter was one and Larrimer was
two. Both times it was a square break. But I know your kind like a book.
You're going to step over the line pretty damn pronto, and when you do,
I'm going to get you, friend, as sure as the sky is blue! You ain't going
to do what your dad done before you. I'll tell you why. In the old days
the law was a joke. But it's tolerable strong now. You hear me talk--get
out of these here parts and stay out. We don't want none of your kind."
There was a flinching of the men about the table. They had seen the
tigerish suddenness with which Terry's temper could flare--they had
received an object lesson that morning. But to their amazement he
remained perfectly cool under fire. He sauntered a little closer to the
sheriff.
"I'll tell you, McGuire," he said gently. "Your great mistake is in
talking too much. You've had a good deal of success, my friend. So much
that your head is turned. You're quite confident that no one will invade
your special territory; and you keep your sympathy for neighboring
counties. You pity the sheriffs around you. Now listen to me. You've
branded me as a criminal in advance. And I'm not going to disappoint you.
I'm going to try to live up to your high hopes. And what I do will be
done right in your county, my friend. I'm going to make the sheriffs pity
_you_, McGuire. I'm going to make your life a small bit of hell. I'm
going to keep you busy. And now--get out! And before you judge the next
man that crosses your path, wait for the advice of twelve good men and
true. You need advice, McGuire. You need it to beat hell! Start on your
way!"
His calmness was shaken a little toward the end of this speech and his
voice, at the close, rang sharply at McGuire. The latter considered him
from beneath frowning brows for a moment and then, without another word,
without a glance to the others and a syllable of adieu, turned and walked
slowly, thoughtfully, out of the room. Terry walked back to his place. As
he sat down, he noticed that every eye was upon him, worried.
"I'm sorry that I've had to do so much talking," he said. "And I
particularly apologize to you, Pollard. But I'm tired of being hounded.
As a matter of fact, I'm now going to try to play the part of the hound
myself. Action, boys; action is what we must have, and action right in
this county under the nose of the complacent McGuire!"