"Nothing," quavered Bill, this torrent of danger pouring about him.
"Except—that it ain't very popular around here—shooting hosses,
Larrimer."
"Damn you and your ideas," said Larrimer. "I'm going to go my own way. I know what's best."
He reached the door, his hand went back to the butt of his revolver.
And then it snapped in Terry, that last restraint which had been at the breaking-point all this time. He felt a warmth run through him—the warmth of strength and the cold of a mysterious and evil happiness.
"Wait, Larrimer!"
The big man whirled as though he had heard a gun; there was a ring in the voice of Terry like the ring down the barrel of a shotgun after it has been cocked.
"You agin?" barked Larrimer.
"Me again. Larrimer, don't shoot the horse."
"Why not?"
"For the sake of your soul, my friend."