"Pollard," he said, more gently than before, "you'll have to eat that talk!"
A flash of bewilderment crossed the face of Pollard—then rage—then that slight contraction of the features which in some men precedes a violent effort.
But the effort did not come. While Terry literally wavered on tiptoe, his nerves straining for the pull of his gun and the leap to one side as he sent his bullet home, a deep, unmusical voice cut in on them:
"Just hold yourself up a minute, will you, Joe?"
Terry looked up. On the balcony in front of the sleeping rooms of the second story, his legs spread apart, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his shapeless black hat crushed on the back of his head, and a broad smile on his ugly face, stood his nemesis—Denver the yegg!
Pollard sprang back from the table and spoke with his face still turned to Terry.
"Pete!" he called. "Come in!"
But Denver, alias Shorty, alias Pete, merely laughed.
"Come in nothing, you fool! Joe, you're about half a second from hell, and so's a couple more of you. D'you know who the kid is? Eh? I'll tell you, boys. It's the kid that dropped old Minter. It's the kid that beat foxy Joe Minter to the draw. It's young Hollis. Why, you damned blind men, look at his face! It's the son of Black Jack. It's Black Jack himself come back to us!"
Joe Pollard had let his hand fall away from his gun. He gaped at Terry as though he were seeing a ghost. He came a long pace nearer and let his arms fall on the table, where they supported his weight.