At the end of a fortnight the first stranger passed,
and ill-luck made it a man from Craterville.
He knew Terry at a glance, and the next morning the
rancher called Terry aside.
The work of that season, he declared, was going to
be lighter than he had expected. Much as he regretted
it, he would have to let his new hand go. Terry
taxed him at once to get at the truth.
“You’ve found out my name. That’s
why you’re turning me off. Is that the
straight of it?”
The sudden pallor of the other was a confession.
“What’s names to me?” he declared.
“Nothing, partner. I take a man the way
I find him. And I’ve found you all right.
The reason I got to let you go is what I said.”
But Terry grinned mirthlessly.
“You know I’m the son of Black Jack Hollis,”
he insisted. “You think that if you keep
me you’ll wake up some morning to find your son’s
throat cut and your cattle gone. Am I right?”
“Listen to me,” the rancher said uncertainly.
“I know how you feel about losing a job so suddenly
when you figured it for a whole season. Suppose
I give you a whole month’s pay and—”
“Damn your money!” said Terry savagely.
“I don’t deny that Black Jack was my father.
I’m proud of it. But listen to me, my friend.
I’m living straight. I’m working
hard. I don’t object to losing this job.
It’s the attitude behind it that I object to.
You’ll not only send me away, but you’ll
spread the news around—Black Jack’s
son is here! Am I a plague because of that name?”
“Mr. Hollis,” insisted the rancher in
a trembling voice, “I don’t mean to get
you all excited. Far as your name goes, I’ll
keep your secret. I give you my word on it.
Trust me, I’ll do what’s right by you.”
He was in a panic. His glance wavered from Terry’s
eyes to the revolver at his side.
“Do you think so?” said Terry. “Here’s
one thing that you may not have thought of. If
you and the rest like you refuse to give me honest
work, there’s only one thing left for me—and
that’s dishonest work. You turn me off
because I’m the son of Black Jack; and that’s
the very thing that will make me the son of Black
Jack in more than name. Did you ever stop to
realize that?”
“Mr. Hollis,” quavered the rancher, “I
guess you’re right. If you want to stay
on here, stay and welcome, I’m sure.”
And his eye hunted for help past the shoulder of Terry
and toward the shed, where his eldest son was whistling.
Terry turned away in mute disgust. By the time
he came out of the bunkhouse with his blanket roll,
there was neither father nor son in sight. The
door of the shack was closed, and through the window
he caught a glimpse of a rifle. Ten minutes later
El Sangre was stepping away across the range at a pace
that no mount in the cattle country could follow for
ten miles.
