"It has happened," she whispered in the same ghostly voice. "But which
one?"

That was it. Who had fallen--Terry, or the sheriff? A long, heavy step
crossed the little porch. Either man might walk like that.

The door was flung open. Terence Hollis stood before them.

"I think that I've killed the sheriff," he said simply. "I'm going up to
my room to put some things together; and I'll go into town with any man
who wishes to arrest me. Decide that between yourselves."

With that he turned and walked away with a step as deliberately unhurried
as his approach had been. The manner of the boy was more terrible than
the thing he had done. Twice he had shocked them on the same afternoon.
And they were just beginning to realize that the shell of boyhood was
being ripped away from Terence Colby. Terry Hollis, son of Black Jack,
was being revealed to them.

The men received the news with utter bewilderment. The sheriff was as
formidable in the opinion of the mountains as some Achilles. It was
incredible that he should have fallen. And naturally a stern murmur rose:
"Foul play!"

Since the first vigilante days there has been no sound in all the West so
dreaded as that deep-throated murmur of angry, honest men. That murmur
from half a dozen law-abiding citizens will put the fear of death in the
hearts of a hundred outlaws. The rumble grew, spread: "Foul play." And
they began to look to one another, these men of action.