from the ranch that morning. The certainty of Denver that he would find
it impossible to stay by his program of honest work had made a strong
impression upon his imaginative mind, as though the little safecracker
really had the power to look into the future and into the minds of men.
Where he should look for work next, he had no idea. And he balanced
between a desire to stay near the town and work out his destiny there, or
else drift far away. Distance, however, seemed to have no barrier against
rumor. After two days of hard riding, he had placed a broad gap between
himself and the Cornish ranch, yet in a short time rumor had overtaken
him, casually, inevitably, and the force of his name was strong enough to
take away his job.

Standing in the middle of the street he looked darkly over the squat
roofs of the town to the ragged mountains that marched away against the
horizon--a bleak outlook. Which way should he ride?

A loud outburst of curses roared behind him, a whip snapped above him, he
stepped aside and barely from under the feet of the leaders as a long
team wound by with the freight wagon creaking and swaying and rumbling
behind it. The driver leaned from his seat in passing and volleyed a few
crackling remarks in the very ear of Terry. It was strange that he did
not resent it. Ordinarily he would have wanted to, climb onto that seat
and roll the driver down in the dust, but today he lacked ambition. Pain
numbed him, a peculiar mental pain. And, with the world free before him
to roam in, he felt imprisoned.

He turned. Someone was laughing at him from the veranda of the hotel and
pointing him out to another, who laughed raucously in turn. Terry knew
what was in their minds. A man who allowed himself to be cursed by a
passing teamster was not worthy of the gun strapped at his thigh. He