"Suppose we go on to the hotel and eat?" he asked Jack Baldwin softly. "No use staying and letting that fellow deafen us with his oaths, is there?" "Better than a circus," declared Baldwin. "Wouldn't miss it. Since old man Harkness died, I ain't heard cussing to match up with Larrimer's. Didn't know that he had that much brains." It seemed that the fates were surely against Terry this day. Yet still he determined to dodge the issue. He started toward the door, taking care not to walk hastily enough to draw suspicion on him because of his withdrawal, but to the heated brain of Larrimer all things were suspicious. His long arm darted out as Terry passed him; he jerked the smaller man violently back. "Wait a minute. I don't know you, kid. Maybe you got the information I want?" "I'm afraid not." Terry blinked. It seemed to him that if he looked again at that vicious, contracted face, his gun would slip into his hand of its own volition. "Who are you?" "A stranger in these parts," said Terry slowly, and he looked down at the floor. He heard a murmur from the men at the other end of the room. He knew that small, buzzing sound. They were wondering at the calmness with which he "took water." "So's Hollis a stranger in these parts," said Larrimer, facing his victim more fully. "What I want to know is about the gent that owns the red hoss in front of the store. Ever hear of him?" Terry was silent. By a vast effort he was able to shake his head. It was hard, bitterly hard, but every good influence that had ever come into his life now stood beside him and fought with and for him--Elizabeth Cornish, the long and fictitious line of his Colby ancestors, Kate Pollard with her clear-seeing eyes. He saw her last of all. When the men were scorning him for the way he had avoided this battle, she, at least, would understand, and her understanding would be a mercy. "Hollis is somewhere around," declared Larrimer, drawing back and biting his lip. "I know it, damn well. His hoss is standing out yonder. I know what'll fetch him. I'll shoot that hoss of his, and that'll bring him--if young Black Jack is half the man they say he is! I ain't out to shoot cowards--I want men!" He strode to the door. "Don't do it!" shouted Bill, the storekeeper. "Shut up!" snapped Baldwin. "I know something. Shut up!" That fierce, low voice reached the ear of Terry, and he understood that it meant Baldwin had judged him as the whole world judged him. After all, what difference did it make whether he killed or not? He was already damned as a slayer of men by the name of his father before him. Larrimer had turned with a roar. "What d'you mean by stopping me, Bill? What in hell d'you mean by it?" With the brightness of the door behind him, his bearded face was wolfish. "Nothing," quavered Bill, this torrent of danger pouring about him. "Except--that it ain't very popular around here--shooting hosses, Larrimer."