There was the same large, dark eye; the same smile,
half proud and half joyous; the same imperious lift
of the head; the same bold carving of the features.
There were differences, to be sure. The nose of
Black Jack had been more cruelly arched, for instance,
and his cheekbones were higher and more pronounced.
But in spite of the dissimilarities the resemblance
was more than striking. It might have stood for
an actual portrait of Terence Colby masquerading in
long hair.
When the full meaning of this photograph had sunk
into his mind, Vance Cornish closed his eyes.
“Eureka!” he whispered to himself.
There was something more to be done. But it was
very simple. It merely consisted in covertly
cutting out the pages of the article in question.
Then, carefully, for fear of loss, he jotted down the
name and date of the magazine, folded his stolen pages,
and fitted them snugly into his breast pocket.
That night he ate his first hearty dinner in four days.
Vance’s work was not by any means accomplished.
Rather, it might be said that he was in the position
of a man with a dangerous charge for a gun and no
weapon to shoot it. He started out to find the
gun.
In fact, he already had it in mind. Twenty-four
hours later he was in Craterville. Five days
out of the ten before the twenty-fifth birthday of
Terence had elapsed, and Vance was still far from his
goal, but he felt that the lion’s share of the
work had been accomplished.
Craterville was a day’s ride across the mountains
from the Cornish ranch, and it was the county seat.
It was one of those towns which spring into existence
for no reason that can be discovered, and cling to
life generations after they should have died.
But Craterville held one thing of which Vance Cornish
was in great need, and that was Sheriff Joe Minter,
familiarly called Uncle Joe. His reason for wanting
the sheriff was perfectly simple. Uncle Joe Minter
was the man who killed Black Jack Hollis.
He had been a boy of eighteen then, shooting with
a rifle across a window sill. That shot had formed
his life. He was now forty-two and he had spent
the interval as the professional enemy of criminals
in the mountains. For the glory which came from
the killing of Black Jack had been sweet to the youthful
palate of Minter, and he had cultivated his taste.
He became the most dreaded manhunter in those districts
where manhunting was most common. He had been
sheriff at Craterville for a dozen years now, and
still his supremacy was not even questioned.
Vance Cornish was lucky to find the sheriff in town
presiding at the head of the long table of the hotel
at dinner. He was a man of great dignity.
He wore his stiff black hair, still untarnished by
gray, very long, brushing it with difficulty to keep
it behind his ears. This mass of black hair framed
a long, stern face, the angles of which had been made
by years. But there was no sign of weakness.
He had grown dry, not flabby. His mouth was a
thin, straight line, and his fighting chin jutted
out in profile.
