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>“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!”

CHAPTER 33

There was no exuberant joy to meet this suggestion. McGuire had, as a

matter of fact, made his territory practically crime-proof for so long

that men had lost interest in planning adventures within the sphere of

his authority. It seemed to the four men of Pollard’s gang a peculiar

folly to cast a challenge in the teeth of the formidable sheriff himself.

Even Pollard was shaken and looked to Denver. But that worthy, who had

returned from the door where he was stationed during the presence of the

sheriff, remained in his place smiling down at his hands. He, for one,

seemed oddly pleased.

 

In the meantime Sandy was setting forth his second and particularly

interesting news item.

 

“You-all know Lewison?” he asked.

 

“The sour old grouch,” affirmed Phil Marvin. “Sure, we know him.”

 

“I know him, too,” said Sandy. “I worked for the tenderfoot that he

skinned out of the ranch. And then I worked for Lewison. If they’s

anything good about Lewison, you’d need a spyglass to find it, and then

it wouldn’t be fit to see. His wife couldn’t live with him; he drove his

son off and turned him into a drunk; and he’s lived his life for his

coin.”

 

“Which he ain’t got much to show for it,” remarked Marvin. “He lives like

a starved dog.”

 

“And that’s just why he’s got the coin,” said Sandy. “He lives on what

would make a dog sick and his whole life he’s been saving every cent he’s

made. He gives his wife one dress every three years till she died. That’s

how tight he is. But he’s sure got the money. Told everybody his kid run

off with all his savings. That’s a lie. His kid didn’t have the guts or

the sense to steal even what was coming to him for the work he done for

the old miser. Matter of fact, he’s got enough coin saved—all gold—to

break the back of a mule. That’s a fact! Never did no investing, but

turned everything he made into gold and put it away.”

 

“How do you know?” This from Denver.

 

“How does a buzzard smell a dead cow?” said Sandy inelegantly. “I ain’t

going to tell you how I smell out the facts about money. Wouldn’t be any

use to you if you knew the trick. The facts is these: he sold his ranch.

You know that?”

 

“Sure, we know that.”

 

“And you know he wouldn’t take nothing but gold coin paid down at the

house?”

 

“That so?”

 

“It sure is! Now the point’s this. He had all his gold in his own private

safe at home.”

 

Denver groaned.

 

“I know, Denver,” nodded Sandy. “Easy pickings for you; but I didn’t find

all this out till the other day. Never even knew he had a safe in his

house. Not till he has ‘em bring out a truck from town and he ships the

safe and everything in it to the bank. You see, he sold out his own place

and he’s going to another that he bought down the river. Well, boys,

here’s the dodge. That safe of his is in the bank tonight, guarded by old

Lewison himself and two gunmen he’s hired for the job. Tomorrow he starts

out down the river with the safe on a big wagon, and he’ll have half a

dozen guards along with him. Boys, they’s going to be forty thousand

dollars in that safe! And the minute she gets out of the county—because

old McGuire will guard it to the boundary line—we can lay back in the

hills and—”

 

“You done enough planning, Sandy,” broke in Joe Pollard. “You’ve smelled

out the loot. Leave it to us to get it. Did you say forty thousand?”

 

And on every face around the table Terry saw the same hunger and the same

yellow glint of the eyes. It would be a big haul, one of the biggest, if

not the very biggest, Pollard had ever attempted.

 

Of the talk that followed, Terry heard little, because he was paying

scant attention. He saw Joe Pollard lie back in his chair with squinted

eyes and run over a swift description of the country through which the

trail of the money would lead. The leader knew every inch of the

mountains, it seemed. His memory was better than a map; in it was jotted

down every fallen log, every boulder, it seemed. And when his mind was

fixed on the best spot for the holdup, he sketched his plan briefly.

 

To this man and to that, parts were assigned in brief. There would be

more to say in the morning about the details. And every man offered

suggestions. On only one point were they agreed. This was a sum of money

for which they could well afford to spill blood. For such a prize as this

they could well risk making the countryside so hot for themselves that

they would have to leave Pollard’s house and establish headquarters

elsewhere. Two shares to Pollard and one to each of his men, including

Sandy, would make the total loot some four thousand dollars and more per

man. And in the event that someone fell in the attempt, which was more

than probable, the share for the rest would be raised to ten thousand for

Pollard and five thousand for each of the rest. Terry saw cold glances

pass the rounds, and more than one dwelt upon him. He was the last to

join; if there were to be a death in this affair, he would be the least

missed of all.

 

A sharp order from Pollard terminated the conference and sent his men to

bed, with Pollard setting the example. But Terry lingered behind and

called back Denver.

 

“There is one point,” he said when they were alone, “that it seems to me

the chief has overlooked.”

 

“Talk up, kid,” grinned Denver Pete. “I seen you was thinking. It sure

does me good to hear you talk. What’s on your mind? Where was Joe wrong?”

 

“Not wrong, perhaps. But he overlooked this fact: tonight the safe is

guarded by three men only; tomorrow it will be guarded by six.”

 

Denver stared, and then blinked.

 

“You mean, try the safe right in town, inside the old bank? Son, you

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