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To tell you the truth, Kate, I hate to go in. I hate it like the devil. But what can I do? I have no grudge against Larrimer. But if he wants to talk about his brother's death, why good Lord, Kate, I have to go in and listen, don't I? I can't dodge that responsibility!" "It's a trick, Terry. I swear it's a trick. I can feel it!"
Drunken Larrimer had roved on, forgetful of his unfinished sentence. For the very purpose of keeping that sentence unfinished, Denver Pete remained on the scene, edging toward the outskirts.
The face of the sheriff darkened. "Well?" he asked aggressively. "And then two crimes in a row. First, a gun brawl in broad daylight young Hollis shot a fellow named er " "Larrimer," snapped the sheriff viciously. "It was a square fight. Larrimer forced the scrap." "I suppose so. Nevertheless, it was a gunfight.
Every bit of it is what you have instilled into me from babyhood." "They are your own dreams yours and Leon's. Now let us make them reality. But where did Dorette go, and where is Camille? I want you all to hear and good Larry, too." "Then stay the day with us, dear. Larrimer will not be home till evening, and there is so much to talk about." "Shall I? Oh, how blissful to think I can!
"It ain't hard to tell why he sent that challenge," she declared. "He has some sneaking plan up his sleeve, Dad. You know Bud Larrimer. He hasn't the nerve to fight a boy. How'll he ever manage to stand up to Terry unless he's got hidden backing?"
Terry Hollis read the letter and tossed it with laughter to Phil Marvin, who sat cross-legged on the floor mending a saddle, and Phil and the rest of the boys shook their heads over it. "What I can't make out," said Joe Pollard, voicing the sentiments of the rest, "is how Bud Larrimer, that's as slow as a plow horse with a gun, could ever find the guts to challenge Terry Hollis to a fair fight."
"There's Larrimer now, and he looks all fired up." Terry turned and saw a tall fellow standing in the doorway. He had been prepared for a youth; he saw before him a hardened man of thirty and more, gaunt-faced, bristling with the rough beard of some five or six days' growth, a thin, cruel, hawklike face.
In the eye of Jack Baldwin, fair-minded man though he was, Black Jack's son was judged and condemned as worthless before his case had been heard. "I dunno," said the storekeeper; "but if Larrimer put one of Black Jack's breed under the ground, I'd call him some use to the town." Jack Baldwin was agreeing fervently when the storekeeper made a violent signal.
His moral determination was a dam which blocked fierce currents in him that were struggling to get free. And a bullet fired at Larrimer would be the thing that burst the dam and let the flood waters of self-will free. Thereafter what stood in his path would be crushed and swept aside. He said to Denver: "This is my affair, not yours. Stand away, Denver. And pray for me." A strange request.
"Black Jack's son," insisted Larrimer. "Wild-goose chase, hell! I was told he was around by a gent named " "These ain't the kind of matches I want!" cried Denver Pete, with a strangely loud-voiced wrath. "I don't want painted wood. How can a gent whittle one of these damned matches down to toothpick size? Gimme plain wood, will you?" The storekeeper, wondering, made the exchange.
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