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?”
