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.