Joe Pollard was humming. Terry joined him on
the way to the house with a deepened sense of awe;
he was even beginning to feel that there was a touch
or two of mystery in the make-up of the man.
Proof of the solidity with which the log house was
built was furnished at once. Coming to the house,
there was only a murmur of voices and of music.
The moment they opened the door, a roar of singing
voices and a jangle of piano music rushed into their
ears.
Terry found himself in a very long room with a big
table in the center and a piano at the farther end.
The ceiling sloped down from the right to the left.
At the left it descended toward the doors of the kitchen
and storerooms; at the right it rose to the height
of two full stories. One of these was occupied
by a series of heavy posts on which hung saddles and
bridles and riding equipment of all kinds, and the
posts supported a balcony onto which opened several
doors—of sleeping rooms, no doubt.
As for the wall behind the posts, it, too, was pierced
with several openings, but Terry could not guess at
the contents of the rooms. But he was amazed
by the size of the structure as it was revealed to
him from within. The main room was like some
baronial hall of the old days of war and plunder.
A role, indeed, into which it was not difficult to
fit the burly Pollard and the dignity of his beard.
Four men were around the piano, and a girl sat at
the keys, splashing out syncopated music while the
men roared the chorus of the song. But at the
sound of the closing of the door all five turned toward
the newcomers, the girl looking over her shoulder
and keeping the soft burden of the song still running.
So turned, Terry could not see her clearly. He
caught a glimmer of red bronze hair, dark in shadow
and brilliant in high lights, and a sheen of greenish
eyes. Otherwise, he only noted the casual manner
in which she acknowledged the introduction, unsmiling,
indifferent, as Pollard said: “Here’s
my daughter Kate. This is Terry—a new
hand.”
It seemed to Terry that as he said this the rancher
made a gesture as of warning, though this, no doubt,
could be attributed to his wish to silently explain
away the idiosyncrasy of Terry in using his first name
only. He was presented in turn to the four men,
and thought them the oddest collection he had ever
laid eyes on.
Slim Dugan was tall, but not so tall as he looked,
owing to his very small head and narrow shoulders.
His hair was straw color, excessively silky, and thin
as the hair of a year-old child. There were other
points of interest in Slim Dugan; his feet, for instance,
were small as the feet of a girl, accentuated by the
long, narrow riding boots, and his hands seemed to
be pulled out to a great and unnecessary length.
They made up for it by their narrowness.
His exact opposite was Marty Cardiff, chunky, fat,
it seemed, until one noted the roll and bulge of the
muscles at the shoulders. His head was settled
into his fat shoulders somewhat in the manner of Denver’s,
Terry thought.
