me off because I'm the son of Black Jack; and that's the very thing that
will make me the son of Black Jack in more than name. Did you ever stop
to realize that?"

"Mr. Hollis," quavered the rancher, "I guess you're right. If you want to
stay on here, stay and welcome, I'm sure."

And his eye hunted for help past the shoulder of Terry and toward the
shed, where his eldest son was whistling. Terry turned away in mute
disgust. By the time he came out of the bunkhouse with his blanket roll,
there was neither father nor son in sight. The door of the shack was
closed, and through the window he caught a glimpse of a rifle. Ten
minutes later El Sangre was stepping away across the range at a pace that
no mount in the cattle country could follow for ten miles.



CHAPTER 20


There was an astonishing deal of life in the town, however. A large
company had reopened some old diggings across the range to the north of
Calkins, and some small fragments of business drifted the way of the
little cattle town. Terry found a long line of a dozen horses waiting to
be shod before the blacksmith shop. One great wagon was lumbering out at
the farther end of the street, with the shrill yells of the teamster
calling back as he picked up his horses one by one with his voice.
Another freight-wagon stood at one side, blocking half the street. And a
stir of busy life was everywhere in the town. The hotel and store
combined was flooded with sound, and the gambling hall across the street