"Matter of fact, I been keeping my eye on you fellows right along. Now, I ain't up here to do no accusing. I'm up here to talk to you man to man. They's been a good many queer things happen. None of 'em in my county, mind you, or I might have done some talking to you before now. But they's been a lot of queer things happen right around in the mountains; and some of 'em has traced back kind of close to Joe Pollard's house as a starting point. I ain't going to go any further. If I'm wrong, they ain't any harm done; if I'm right, you know what I mean. But I tell you this, boys— we're a long-sufferin' lot around these parts, but they's some things that we don't stand for, and one of 'em that riles us particular much is when a gent that lays out to be a regular hardworking rancher—even if he ain't got much of a ranch to talk about and work about—takes mankillers under their wings. It ain't regular, and it ain't popular around these parts. I guess you know what I mean."
Terry expected Pollard to jump to his feet. But there was no such response. The other men stared down at the table, their lips working. Pollard alone met the eye of the sheriff.
The sheriff changed the direction of his glance. Instantly, it fell on
Terry and stayed there.
"You're the man I mean; you're Terry Hollis, Black Jack's son?"
Terry imitated the others and did not reply.
"Oh, they ain't any use beating about the bush. You got Black Jack's blood in you. That's plain. I remember your old man well enough."
Terry rose slowly from his chair.
"I think I'm not disputing that, sheriff. As a matter of fact, I'm very proud of my father."
"I think you are," said the sheriff gravely. "I think you are—damned proud of him. So proud you might even figure on imitating what he done in the old days."
"Perhaps," said Terry. The imp of the perverse was up in him now, urging him on.