Black Jack, we're going to trim this town to a fare-thee-well!"

"My name is Hollis," said Terry. "Terence Hollis."

"Terence hell," snorted the other. "You're Black Jack's kid, ain't you?
And ain't his moniker good enough for you to work under? Why, kid, that's
a trademark most of us would give ten thousand cash for!"

He broke off and regarded Terry with a growing satisfaction.

"You're his kid, all right. This is just the way Black Jack would of
sat--cool as ice--with a gang under him talking about stretching his
neck. And now, bo, hark to me sing! I got the job fixed and--But wait a
minute. What you been doing all these years? Black Jack was known when he
was your age!"

With a peculiar thrill of awe and of aversion Terry watched the face of
the man who had known his father so well. He tried to make himself
believe that twenty-four years ago Denver might have been quite another
type of man. But it was impossible to re-create that face other than as a
bulldog in the human flesh. The craft and the courage of a fighter were
written large in those features.

"I've been leading--a quiet life," he said gently.

The other grinned. "Sure--quiet," he chuckled. "And then you wake up and
bust Minter for your first crack. You began late, son, but you may go
far. Pretty tricky with the gat, eh?"

He nodded in anticipatory admiration.