He pressed the point with singular insistence.
“Doesn’t it make your heart beat, Elizabeth,
when you think that he might fall—that
he might do what I prophesied so long ago—shoot
a man before he’s twenty-five?”
She shrugged the supposition calmly away.
“My faith in him is based as strongly as the
rocks, Vance. But if he fell, after the schooling
I’ve given him, I’d throw him out of my
life— forever.”
He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar
eagerness. Then he shrugged in turn. “Tush!
Of course, that’s impossible. Let’s
go down.”
When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence
Colby coming up the terrace from the river road on
Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One
ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store
for him, but would try to be on the alert. One
ear flagged warily back. He went slowly, lifting
his feet with the care of a very weary horse.
Yet, when the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves
beside him, he leaped aside and stood with high head,
staring, transformed in the instant into a creature
of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave
to the side-spring with supple grace and then sent
the stallion on up the hill.
Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His
black hair was blowing about his forehead, for his
hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has
done a hard day’s work and is ready to rest.
He came close to the veranda, and Le Sangre lifted
his fine head and stared fearlessly, curiously, with
a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.
“The killer is no longer a killer,” laughed
Terry. “Look him over, Uncle Vance.
A beauty, eh?”
Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked
herself back and forth a trifle in her chair as she
nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping
that others might be there to see the triumph of her
boy. Then she looked back at Terence. But
Vance was regarding the horse.
“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”
“Not much more. A leggy horse can’t
stand mountain work—or any other work,
for that matter, except a ride in the park.”
“I suppose you’re right. He’s
a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye, but
I see that you’ve beaten him.”
“Beaten him?” He shook his head.
“We reached a gentleman’s agreement.
As long as I wear spurs, he’ll fight me till
he gets his teeth in me or splashes my skull to bits
with his heels. Otherwise he’ll keep on
fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take
off the spurs and stop tormenting him, he’ll
do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre.
Eh, boy?”
He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them.
The horse stiffened with a shudder, and that forward
look of a horse about to bolt came in his eyes.
“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.
But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his
pocket.
