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money I want!

 

And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the

doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his

gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them

in greeting. It was impossible—more impossible than ever.

 

He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What

should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her

with that stain in his soul?

 

And this was what Terry said to her: “I’m going to teach El Sangre to let

you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you’d been with us going down the

hill this morning!”

 

No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely

changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed

larger and brighter—it was no longer possible for her to look deeply

into it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other

differences.

 

He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was

a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a

catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light

before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was

an air of uneasy, alert happiness—as of one who steals a few perfect

moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her,

and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.

 

“Terry Hollis, what have you done? You’re lookin’ me in the eye, but you

ought to be hangin’ your head. You’ve done murder! Murder! Murder!”

 

She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting

the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.

 

He was laughing down at her—actually laughing, and there was no doubt as

to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her;

she became afraid for the first time in her life.

 

“A little formality with a gun,” he said calmly. “A dog got in my way,

Kate—a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm.”

 

“Ah, Terry, I know everything. I’ve heard Denver tell it. I know it was a

man, Terry.”

 

He insisted carelessly. “By the Lord, Kate, only a dog—and a mad dog at

that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a

dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn’t worth talking about.”

 

She drew away from him. “Terry, God pity you. I pity you,” she went on

hurriedly and faintly. “But you ain’t the same any more, Terry. I—I’m

almost afraid of you!”

 

He tried laughingly to stop her, and in a sudden burst of hysterical

terror she fled from him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him come

after her, light as a shadow. And the shadow leaped between her and the

door; the force of her rush drove her into his arms.

 

In the distance she could hear the others laughing—they understood such

a game as this, and enjoyed it with all their hearts. Ah, the fools!

 

He held her lightly, his fingertips under her elbows. For all the

delicacy of that touch, she knew that if she attempted to flee, the grip

would be iron. He would hold her where she was until he was through

talking to her.

 

“Don’t you see what I’ve done?” he was saying rapidly. “You wanted to

drive me out last night. You said I didn’t fit—that I didn’t belong up

here. Well, Kate, I started out today to make myself fit to belong to

this company of fine fellows.”

 

He laughed a little; if it were not real mirth, at least there was a

fierce quality of joy in his voice.

 

“You see, I decided that if I went away I’d be lonely. Particularly, I’d

be lonely as the devil, Kate, for you!”

 

“You’ve murdered to make yourself one—of us?”

 

“Tush, Kate. You exaggerate entirely. Do you know what I’ve really done?

Why, I’ve wakened; I’ve come to my senses. After all, there was no other

place for me to go. I tried the world of good, ordinary working people. I

asked them to let me come in and prove my right to be one of them. They

discharged me when I worked honestly on the range. They sent their

professional gunmen and bullies after me. And then—I reached the limit

of my endurance, Kate, and I struck back. And the mockery of it all is

this—that though they have struck me repeatedly and I have endured it,

I—having struck back a single time—am barred from among them forever.

Let it be so!”

 

“Hush, Terry. I—I’m going to think of ways!”

 

“You couldn’t. Last night—yes. Today I’m a man—and I’m free. And

freedom is the sweetest thing in the world. There’s no place else for me

to go. This is my world. You’re my queen. I’ve won my spurs; I’ll use

them in your service, Kate.”

 

“Stop, Terry!”

 

“By the Lord, I will, though! I’m happy—don’t you see? And I’m going to

be happier. I’m going to work my way along until I can tell you—that I

love you, Kate—that you’re the daintiest body of fire and beauty and

temper and gentleness and wisdom and fun that was ever crowned with the

name of a woman. And—”

 

But under the rapid fire of his words there was a touch of hardness—

mockery, perhaps. She drew back, and he stepped instantly aside. She went

by him through the door with bowed head. And Terry, closing it after her,

heard the first sob.

CHAPTER 32

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.”

 

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