Machiavellian smoothness. "If Terry saw the man who killed his father,
all his twenty-four years of training would go up in smoke and the blood
of his father would talk in him. There'd be a shooting!"

She caught a hand to her throat. "I'm not so sure of that, Vance. I think
he would come through this acid test. But I don't want to take chances."

"I don't blame you, Elizabeth," said her brother heartily. "Neither would
I. But if the sheriff stays here, I feel that I'm going to win the bet
that I made twenty-four years ago. You remember? That Terry would shoot a
man before he was twenty-five?"

"Have I ever forgotten?" she said huskily. "Have I ever let it go out of
my mind? But it isn't the danger of Terry shooting. It's the danger of
Terry being shot. If he should reach for a gun against the sheriff--that
professional mankiller--Vance, something has to be done!"

"Right," he nodded. "I wouldn't trust Terry in the face of such a
temptation to violence. Not for a moment!"

The natural stubbornness on which he had counted hardened in her face.

"I don't know."

"It would be an acid test, Elizabeth. But perhaps now is the time. You've
spent twenty-four years training him. If he isn't what he ought to be
now, he never will be, no doubt."

"It may be that you're right," she said gloomily. "Twenty-four years!
Yes, and I've filled about half of my time with Terry and his training.