But the son of Black Jack tore away all thought of
laughter.
“Larrimer, I’m Terry Hollis. Get
your gun!”
The wide mouth of Larrimer writhed silently from mirth
to astonishment, and then sinister rage. And
though he was in the shadow against the door, Terry
saw the slow gleam in the face of the tall man—then
his hand whipped for the gun. It came cleanly
out. There was no flap to his holster, and the
sight had been filed away to give more oiled and perfect
freedom to the draw. Years of patient practice
had taught his muscles to reflex in this one motion
with a speed that baffled the eye. Fast as light
that draw seemed to those who watched, and the draw
of Terry Hollis appeared to hang in midair. His
hand wavered, then clutched suddenly, and they saw
a flash of metal, not the actual motion of drawing
the gun. Just that gleam of the barrel at his
hip, hardly clear of the holster, and then in the
dimness of the big room a spurt of flame and the boom
of the gun.
There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of
the room. Larrimer’s gun had rattled on
the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt
arms as though he were appealing for help, leaped
into the air, and fell heavily, with a force that
vibrated the floor where Terry stood.
There was one heartbeat of silence.
Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster
and walked to the body of Larrimer.
To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin,
the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black
Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened
and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot.
Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional
look.
“I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger
work in this town,” he said. “But
I’m going to leave it to you gentlemen to take
the carrion away. Shorty, I’m going back
to the house. Are you ready to ride that way?”
When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward,
they found a neat, circular splotch of purple exactly
placed between the eyes.
The first thing the people in Pollard’s big
house knew of the return of the two was a voice singing
faintly and far off in the stable—they could
hear it because the door to the big living room was
opened. And Kate Pollard, who had been sitting
idly at the piano, stood up suddenly and looked around
her. It did not interrupt the crap game of the
four at one side of the room, where they kneeled in
a close circle. But it brought big Pollard himself
to the door in time to meet Denver Pete as the latter
hurried in.
When Denver was excited he talked very nearly as softly
as he walked. And his voice tonight was like
a contented humming.
“It worked,” was all he said aside to
Pollard as he came through the door. They exchanged
silent grips of the hands. Then Kate drew down
on them; as if a mysterious; signal had been passed
to them by the subdued entrance of Denver, the four
rose at the side of the room.
