It was almost too much for Vance--to be reproached after so much of the triumph was on her side--such a complete victory that she herself would never dream of the peril she and Terry had escaped. But he had to control his irritation. In fact, he saw his whole life ahead of him carefully schooled and controlled. He no longer had anything to sell. Elizabeth had made a mock of him and shown him that he was hollow, that he was living on her charity. He must all the days that she remained alive keep flattering her, trying to find a way to make himself a necessity to her. And after her death there would be a still harder task. Terry, who disliked him pointedly, would then be the master, and he would face the bitter necessity of cajoling the youngster whom he detested. A fine life, truly! An almost noble anguish of the spirit came upon Vance. He was urged to the very brink of the determination to thrust out into the world and make his own living. But he recoiled from that horrible idea in time. "Yes," he said, "that was the worst step I ever took. But I was trying to be wholehearted in the Western way, my dear, and show that I had entered into the spirit of things." "As a matter of fact," sighed Elizabeth, "you nearly ruined Terry's life--and mine!" "Very near," said the penitent Vance. "But then--you see how well it has turned out? Terry has taken the acid test, and now you can trust him under any--" The words were literally blown off ragged at his lips. Two revolver shots exploded at them. No one gun could have fired them. And there was a terrible significance in the angry speed with which one had followed the other, blending, so that the echo from the lofty side of Sleep Mountain was but a single booming sound. In that clear air it was impossible to tell the direction of the noise. Everyone in the room seemed to listen stupidly for a repetition of the noises. But there was no repetition. "Vance," whispered Elizabeth in such a tone that the coward dared not look into her face. "It's happened!" "What?" He knew, but he wanted the joy of hearing it from her own lips. "It has happened," she whispered in the same ghostly voice. "But which one?" That was it. Who had fallen--Terry, or the sheriff? A long, heavy step crossed the little porch. Either man might walk like that. The door was flung open. Terence Hollis stood before them. "I think that I've killed the sheriff," he said simply. "I'm going up to my room to put some things together; and I'll go into town with any man who wishes to arrest me. Decide that between yourselves." With that he turned and walked away with a step as deliberately unhurried as his approach had been. The manner of the boy was more terrible than the thing he had done. Twice he had shocked them on the same afternoon. And they were just beginning to realize that the shell of boyhood was being ripped away from Terence Colby. Terry Hollis, son of Black Jack, was being revealed to them.