For the first time in his life fear swept over Terry--fear of himself compared with which the qualm he had felt after turning from Slim Dugan that morning had been nothing. For the second time in one day he was being tempted, and the certainty came to him that he would kill Larrimer. And what made that certainty more sure was the appearance of his nemesis, Denver Pete, in this crisis. As though, with sure scent for evil, Denver had come to be present and watch the launching of Terry into a career of crime. But it was not the public that Terry feared. It was himself. 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. It shattered even the indomitable self-control of Denver and left him gaping. Larrimer, having completed his survey of the dim interior of the store, stalked down upon them. He saw Terry for the first time, paused, and his bloodshot little eyes ran up and down the body of the stranger. He turned to the storekeeper, but still half of his attention was fixed upon Terry. "Bill," he said, "you seen anything of a spavined, long-horned, no-good skunk named Hollis around town today?" And Terry could see him wait, quivering, half in hopes that the stranger would show some anger at this denunciation. "Ain't seen nobody by that name," said Bill mildly. "Maybe you're chasing a wild goose? Who told you they was a gent named Hollis around?" "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. 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. Now was to come, in a single moment, both the temptation and the test of Terry Hollis, and well Denver knew that if Larrimer fell with a bullet in his body there would be an end of Terry Hollis in the world and the birth of a new soul--the true son of Black Jack! "It's him that plugged Sheriff Minter," went on Larrimer. "I hear tell as how he got the sheriff from behind and plugged him. This town ain't a place for a man-killing houn' dog like young Black Jack, and I'm here to let him know it!" The torrent of abuse died out in a crackle of curses. Terry Hollis stood as one stunned. Yet his hand stayed free of his gun.