"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!"