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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.

CHAPTER 29

There had been a profound reason behind the sudden turning of Terry

Hollis’s horse and his riding down the hill. For as he sat the saddle,

quivering, he felt rising in him an all-controlling impulse that was new

to him, a fierce and sudden passion.

 

It was joyous, free, terrible in its force—that wish to slay. The

emotion had grown, held back by the very force of a mental thread of

reason, until, at the very moment when the thread was about to fray and

snap, and he would be flung into sudden action, the booming voice of Joe

Pollard had cleared his mind as an acid clears a cloudy precipitate. He

saw himself for the first time in several moments, and what he saw made

him shudder.

 

And still in fear of himself he swung El Sangre and put him down the

slope recklessly. Never in his life had he ridden as he rode in those

first five minutes down the pitch of the hill. He gave El Sangre his head

to pick his own way, and he confined his efforts to urging the great

stallion along. The blood-bay went like the wind, passing up-jutting

boulders with a swish of gravel knocked from his plunging hoofs against

the rock.

 

Even in Terry’s passion of self-dread he dimly appreciated the prowess of

the horse, and when they shot onto the level going of the valley road, he

called El Sangre out of the mad gallop and back to the natural pace, a

gait as swinging and smooth as running water—yet still the road poured

beneath them at the speed of an ordinary gallop. It was music to Terry

Hollis, that matchless gait. He leaned and murmured to the pricking ears

with that soft, gentle voice which horses love. The glorious head of El

Sangre went up a little, his tail flaunted somewhat more proudly; from

the quiver of his nostrils to the ringing beat of his black hoofs he

bespoke his confidence that he bore the king of men on his back.

 

And the pride of the great horse brought back some of Terry’s own waning

self-confidence. His father had been up in him as he faced Slim Dugan, he

knew. Once more he had escaped from the commission of a crime. But for

how long would he succeed in dodging that imp of the perverse which

haunted him?

 

It was like the temptation of a drug—to strike just once, and thereafter

to be raised above himself, take to himself the power of evil which is

greater than the power of good. The blow he struck at the sheriff had

merely served to launch him on his way. To strike down was not now what

he wanted, but to kill! To feel that once he had accomplished the destiny

of some strong man, to turn a creature of mind and soul, ambition and

hope, at a single stroke into so many pounds of flesh, useless, done for.

What could be more glorious? What could be more terrible? And the desire

to strike, as he had looked into the sneering face of Slim Dugan, had

been almost overmastering.

 

Sooner or later he would strike that blow. Sooner or later he would

commit the great and controlling crime. And the rest of his life would be

a continual evasion of the law.

 

If they would only take him into their midst, the good and the lawabiding men of the mountains! If they would only accept him by word or

deed and give him a chance to prove that he was honest! Even then the

battle would be hard, against temptation; but they were too smugly sure

that his downfall was certain. Twice they had rejected him without cause.

How long would it be before they actually raised their hands against him?

How long would it be before they violently put him in the class of his

father?

 

Grinding his teeth, he swore that if that time ever came when they took

his destiny into their own hands, he would make it a day to be marked in

red all through the mountains!

 

The cool, fresh wind against his face blew the sullen anger away. And

when he came close to the town, he was his old self.

 

A man on a tall gray, with the legs of speed and plenty of girth at the

cinches, where girth means lung power, twisted out of a side trail and

swung past El Sangre at a fast gallop. The blood-bay snorted and came

hard against the bit in a desire to follow. On the range, when he led his

wild band, no horse had ever passed El Sangre and hardly the voice of the

master could keep him back now. Terry loosed him. He did not break into a

gallop, but fled down the road like an arrow, and the gray came back to

him slowly and surely until the rider twisted around and swore in

surprise.

 

He touched his mount with the spurs; there was a fresh start from the

gray, a lunge that kicked a little spurt of dust into the nostrils of El

Sangre. He snorted it out. Terry released his head completely, and now,

as though in scorn refusing to break into his sweeping gallop, El Sangre

flung himself ahead to the full of his natural pace.

 

And the gray came back steadily. The town was shoving up at them

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