“Not a cent—nothing,” said
Terry, but he was deeply moved.
Denver thoughtfully restored the money to his wallet.
“You’re white,” he said gently.
“And you’re straight as they come.
Keep it up if you can. I know damned well that
you can’t. I’ve seen ’em try
before. But they always slip. Keep it up,
Black Jack, but if you ever change your mind, lemme
know. I’ll be handy. Here’s luck!”
And he was gone as he had entered, with a whish of
the swiftly moved door in the air, and no click of
the lock.
The door had hardly closed on him when Terence wanted
to run after him and call him back. There was
a thrill still running in his blood since the time
the yegg had leaned so close and said: “That
wasn’t Black Jack’s way!”
He wanted to know more about Black Jack, and he wanted
to hear the story from the lips of this man.
A strange warmth had come over him. It had seemed
for a moment that there was a third impalpable presence
in the room—his father listening.
And the thrill of it remained, a ghostly and yet a
real thing.
But he checked his impulse. Let Denver go, and
the thought of his father with him. For the influence
of Black Jack, he felt, was quicksand pulling him
down. The very fact that he was his father’s
son had made him shoot down one man. Again the
shadow of Black Jack had fallen across his path today
and tempted him to crime. How real the temptation
had been, Terry did not know until he was alone.
Half of ten thousand dollars would support him for
many a month. One thing was certain. He must
let his father remain simply a name.
Going to the window in his stocking feet, he listened
again. There were more voices murmuring on the
veranda of the hotel now, but within a few moments
forms began to drift away down the street, and finally
there was silence. Evidently the widow had not
secured backing as strong as she could have desired.
And Terry went to bed and to sleep.
He wakened with the first touch of dawn along the
wall beside his bed and tumbled out to dress.
It was early, even for a mountain town. The rattling
at the kitchen stove commenced while he was on the
way downstairs. And he had to waste time with
a visit to El Sangre in the stable before his breakfast
was ready.
Craterville was in the hollow behind him when the
sun rose, and El Sangre was taking up the miles with
the tireless rhythm of his pace. He had intended
searching for work of some sort near Craterville, but
now he realized that it could not be. He must
go farther. He must go where his name was not
known.
For two days he held on through the broken country,
climbing more than he dropped. Twice he came
above the ragged timber line, with its wind-shaped
army of stunted trees, and over the tiny flowers of
the summit lands. At the end of the second day
he came out on the edge of a precipitous descent to
a prosperous grazing country below. There would
be his goal.
