A great, sweet peace dropped on the heart of Terry Hollis. Now he felt he was at home. He went back to his work. But in the midmorning Joe Pollard came to him and grunted at the swath Terry had driven into the heart of the lodgepole pines. "I wanted junk for the fire," he protested; "not enough to build a house. But I got a little errand for you in town, Terry. You can give El Sangre a stretching down the road?" "Of course." It gave Terry a little prickling feeling of resentment to be ordered about. But he swallowed the resentment. After all, this was labor of his own choosing, though he could not but wonder a little, because Joe Pollard no longer pressed him to take back the money he had lost. And he reverted to the talk of Kate the night before. That three hundred dollars was now an anchor holding him to the service of her father. And he remembered, with a touch of dismay, that it might take a year of ordinary wages to save three hundred dollars. Or more than a year. It was impossible to be downhearted long, however. The morning was as fresh as a rose, and the four men came out of the house with Pollard to see El Sangre dancing under the saddle. Terry received the commission for a box of shotgun cartridges and the money to pay for them. "And the change," said Pollard liberally, "don't worry me none. Step around and make yourself to home in town. About coming back--well, when I send a man into town, I figure on him making a day of it. S'long, Terry!" "Hey," called Slim, "is El Sangre gun-shy?" "I suppose so." The stallion quivered with eagerness to be off. "Here's to try him." The gun flashed into Slim's hand and boomed. El Sangre bolted straight into the air and landed on legs of jack-rabbit qualities that flung him sidewise. The hand and voice of Terry quieted him, while the others stood around grinning with delight at the fun and at the beautiful horsemanship. "But what'll he do if you pull a gun yourself?" asked Joe Pollard, showing a sudden concern. "He'll stand for it--long enough," said Terry. "Try him!" There was a devil in Slim that morning. He snatched up a shining bit of quartz and hurled it--straight at El Sangre! There was no warning--just a jerk of the arm and the stone came flashing. "Try your gun--on that!" The words were torn off short. The heavy gun had twitched into the hand of Terry, exploded, and the gleaming quartz puffed into a shower of bright particles that danced toward the earth. El Sangre flew into a paroxysm of educated bucking of the most advanced school. The steady voice of Terry Hollis brought him at last to a quivering stop. The rider was stiff in the saddle, his mouth a white, straight line. He shoved his revolver deliberately back into the holster. The four men had drawn together, still muttering with wonder. Luck may have had something to do with the success of that snapshot, but it was such a feat of marksmanship as would be remembered and talked about. "Dugan!" said Terry huskily.