There was a clangor of metal at the farthest end of the room. Larrimer's gun had rattled on the boards, unfired. He tossed up his great gaunt arms as though he were appealing for help, leaped into the air, and fell heavily, with a force that vibrated the floor where Terry stood.
There was one heartbeat of silence.
Then Terry shoved the gun slowly back into his holster and walked to the body of Larrimer.
To these things Bill, the storekeeper, and Jack Baldwin, the rancher, afterward swore. That young Black Jack leaned a little over the corpse and then straightened and touched the fallen hand with the toe of his boot. Then he turned upon them a perfectly calm, unemotional look.
“I seem to have been elected to do the scavenger work in this town,” he said. “But I'm going to leave it to you gentlemen to take the carrion away. Shorty, I'm going back to the house. Are you ready to ride that way?”
When they went to the body of Larrimer afterward, they found a neat, circular splotch of purple exactly placed between the eyes.
CHAPTER 31
The first thing the people in Pollard's big house knew of the return of the two was a voice singing faintly and far off in the stable—they could hear it because the door to the big living room was opened. And Kate Pollard, who had been sitting idly at the piano, stood up suddenly and looked around her. It did not interrupt the crap game of the four at one side of the room, where they kneeled in a close circle. But it brought big Pollard himself to the door in time to meet Denver Pete as the latter hurried in.
When Denver was excited he talked very nearly as softly as he walked. And his voice tonight was like a contented humming.
“It worked,” was all he said aside to Pollard as he came through the door. They exchanged silent grips of the hands. Then Kate drew down on them; as if a mysterious; signal had been passed to them by the subdued entrance of Denver, the four rose at the side of the room.
It was Pollard who forced him to talk.
“What happened?”
“A pretty little party,” said Denver. His purring voice was so soft that to hear him the others instantly drew close. Kate Pollard stood suddenly before him.
“Terry Hollis has done something,” she said. “Denver, what has he done?”
“Him? Nothing much. To put it in his own words, he's just played scavenger for the town—and he's done it in a way they won't be forgetting for a good long day.
“Denver!”
“Well? No need of acting up, Kate.”
“Who was it?”
“Ever meet young Larrimer?”
She shuddered. “Yes. A—beast of a man.”
“Sure. Worse'n a beast, maybe. Well, he's carrion now, to use Terry's words again.”
“Wait a minute,” cut in big blond Phil Marvin. Don't spoil the story for Terry. But did he really do for Larrimer? Larrimer was a neat one with a gun—no good otherwise.”
“Did he do for Larrimer?” echoed Denver in his purring voice. “Oh, man, man! Did he do for Larrimer? And I ain't spoiling his story. He won't talk about it. Wouldn't open his face about it all the way home. A pretty neat play, boys. Larrimer was looking for a rep, and he wanted to make it on Black Jack's son. Came tearing in.
“At first Terry tried to sidestep him. Made me weak inside for a minute because I thought he was going to take water. Then he got riled a bit and then—whang! It was all over. Not a body shot. No, boys, nothing clumsy and amateurish like that, because a man may live to empty his gun at you after he's been shot through the body. This young Hollis, pals, just ups and drills Larrimer clean between the eyes. If you'd measured it off with a ruler, you couldn't have hit exact center any better'n he done. Then he walks up and stirs Larrimer with his toe to make sure he was dead. Cool as hell.”
“You lie!” cried the girl suddenly.
They whirled at her, and found her standing and flaming at them.
“You hear me say it, Kate,” said Denver, losing a little of his calm.
“He wasn't as cool as that—after killing a man. He wasn't.”
“All right, honey. Don't you hear him singing out there in the stable? Does that sound as if he was cut up much?”
“Then you've made him a murderer—you, Denver, and you, Dad. Oh, if they's a hell, you're going to travel there for this! Both of you!”
“As if we had anything to do with it!” exclaimed Denver innocently. “Besides, it wasn't murder. It was plain self-defense. Nothing but that. Three witnesses to swear to it. But, my, my—you should hear that town rave. They thought nobody could beat Larrimer.”
The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her hand, brooding. It was all impossible—it could not be. Yet there was Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis singing as he cared for El Sangre.
She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close at hand. Presently the singing rang out more clearly. He had stepped out of the barn.
Oh, I am a friar of orders gray, Through hill and valley I take my way. My long bead roll I merrily chant; Wherever I wander no money I want!
And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them in greeting. It was impossible—more impossible than ever.
He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her with that stain in his soul?
And this was what Terry said to her: “I'm going to teach El Sangre to let you ride him, Kate. By the Lord, I wish you'd been with us going down the hill this morning!”
No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed larger and brighter—it was no longer possible for her to look deeply into it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other differences.
He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was an air of uneasy, alert happiness—as of one who steals a few perfect moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her, and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.
“Terry Hollis, what have you done? You're lookin' me in the eye, but you ought to be hangin' your head. You've done murder! Murder! Murder!”
She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.
He was laughing down at her—actually laughing, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her; she became afraid for the first time in her life.
“A little formality with a gun,” he said calmly. “A dog got in my way, Kate—a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm.”