But Craterville was also something more. It was a place where several
hundred human beings lived, any one of whom might be the decisive
influence in the life of Terry. Young men and old men were in that town,
cunning and strength; old crones and lovely girls were there. Whom would
he meet? What should he see? A sudden kindness toward others poured
through Terry Hollis. After all, every man might be a treasure to him. A
queer choking came in his throat when he thought of all that he had
missed by his contemptuous aloofness.

One thing gave him check. This was primarily the sheriff's town, and by
this time they knew all about the shooting. But what of that? He had
fought fairly, almost too fairly.

He passed the first shapeless shack. The hoofs of El Sangre bit into the
dust, choking and red in daylight, and acrid of scent by the night. All
was very quiet except for a stir of voices in the distance here and
there, always kept hushed as though the speaker felt and acknowledged the
influence of the profound night in the mountains. Someone came down the
street carrying a lantern. It turned his steps into vast spokes of
shadows that rushed back and forth across the houses with the swing of
the light. The lantern light gleamed on the stained flank of El Sangre.

"Halloo, Jake, that you?"

The man with the lantern raised it, but its light merely served to blind
him. Terry passed on without a word and heard the other mutter behind
him: "Some damn stranger!"

Perhaps strangers were not welcome in Craterville. At least, it seemed so