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!"
No shame, no downward head, no remorse. And he was subtly and strangely changed. She could not put the difference into words. But his eye seemed larger and brighter—it was no longer possible for her to look deeply into it, as she had done so easily the night before. And there were other differences.
He held his head in a more lordly fashion. About every movement there was a singular ease and precision. He walked with a lighter step and with a catlike softness almost as odd as that of Denver. His step had been light before, but it was not like this. But through him and about him there was an air of uneasy, alert happiness—as of one who steals a few perfect moments, knowing that they will not be many. A great pity welled in her, and a great anger. It was the anger which showed.
"Terry Hollis, what have you done? You're lookin' me in the eye, but you ought to be hangin' your head. You've done murder! Murder! Murder!"
She let the three words ring through the room like three blows, cutting the talk to silence. And all save Terry seemed moved.
He was laughing down at her—actually laughing, and there was no doubt as to the sincerity of that mirth. His presence drew her and repelled her; she became afraid for the first time in her life.
"A little formality with a gun," he said calmly. "A dog got in my way,
Kate—a mad dog. I shot the beast to keep it from doing harm."
"Ah, Terry, I know everything. I've heard Denver tell it. I know it was a man, Terry."
He insisted carelessly. "By the Lord, Kate, only a dog—and a mad dog at that. Perhaps there was the body of a man, but there was the soul of a dog inside the skin. Tut! it isn't worth talking about."