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disown him, throw him out penniless on the world, never see him

again.”

 

“You’re a Spartan,” said her brother in awe, as he looked on that thin,

stern face. “Terry is your theory. If he disappoints you, he’ll be simply

a theory gone wrong. You’ll cut him out of your life as if he were an

algebraic equation and never think of him again.”

 

“But he’s not going wrong, Vance. Because, in ten days, he’ll be twenty-five! And that’s what all these changes mean. The moment it grows dark on

the night of his twenty-fifth birthday, I’m going to take him into my

father’s room and turn it over to him.”

 

He had listened to her patiently, a little wearied by her unusual flow of

words. Now he came out of his apathy with a jerk. He laid his hand on

Elizabeth’s shoulder and turned her so that the light shone full in her

face. Then he studied her.

 

“What do you mean by that, Elizabeth?”

 

“Vance,” she said steadily, but with a touch of pity in her voice, “I

have waited for a score of years, hoping that you’d settle down and try

to do a man’s work either here or somewhere else. You haven’t done it.

Yesterday Mr. Cornwall came here to draw up my will. By that will I leave

you an annuity, Vance, that will take care of you in comfort; but I leave

everything else to Terry Colby. That’s why I’ve changed the room. The

moment it grows dark ten days from today, I’m going to take Terry by the

hand and lead him into the room and into the position of my father!”

 

The mask of youth which was Vance Cornish crumbled and fell away. A new

man looked down at her. The firm flesh of his face became loose. His

whole body was flabby. She had the feeling that if she pushed against his

chest with the weight of her arm, he would topple to the floor. That

weakness gradually passed. A peculiar strength of purpose grew in its

place.

 

“Of course, this is a very shrewd game, Elizabeth. You want to wake me

up. You’re using the spur to make me work. I don’t blame you for using

the bluff, even if it’s a rather cruel one. But, of course, it’s

impossible for you to be serious in what you say.”

 

“Why impossible, Vance?”

 

“Because you know that I’m the last male representative of our family.

Because you know my father would turn in his grave if he knew that an

interloper, a foundling, the child of a murderer, a vagabond, had been

made the heir to his estate. But you aren’t serious, Elizabeth; I

understand.”

 

He swallowed his pride, for panic grew in him in proportion to the length

of time she maintained her silence.

 

“As a matter of fact, I don’t blame you for giving me a scare, my dear

sister. I have been a shameless loafer. I’m going to reform and lift the

burden of business off your shoulders—let you rest the remainder of your

life.”

 

It was the worst thing he could have said. He realized it the moment he

had spoken. This forced, cowardly surrender was worse than brazen

defiance, and he saw her lip curl. An idler is apt to be like a sullen

child, except that in a grown man the child’s sulky spite becomes a dark

malice, all-embracing. For the very reason that Vance knew he was

receiving what he deserved, and that this was the just reward for his

thriftless years of idleness, he began to hate Elizabeth with a cold,

quiet hatred. There is something stimulating about any great passion. Now

Vance felt his nerves soothed and calmed. His self-possession returned

with a rush. He was suddenly able to smile into her face.

 

“After all,” he said, “you’re absolutely right. I’ve been a failure,

Elizabeth—a rank, disheartening failure. You’d be foolish to trust the

result of your life labors in my hands—entirely foolish. I admit that

it’s a shrewd blow to see the estate go to—Terry.”

 

He found it oddly difficult to name the boy.

 

“But why not? Why not Terry? He’s a clean youngster, and he may turn out

very well—in spite of his blood. I hope so. The Lord knows you’ve given

him every chance and the best start in the world. I wish him luck!”

 

He reached out his hand, and her bloodless fingers closed strongly over

it.

 

“There’s the old Vance talking,” she said warmly, a mist across her eyes.

“I almost thought that part of you had died.”

 

He writhed inwardly. “By Jove, Elizabeth, think of that boy, coming out

of nothing, everything poured into his hands—and now within ten days of

his goal! Rather exciting, isn’t it? Suppose he should stumble at the

very threshold of his success? Eh?”

 

He pressed the point with singular insistence.

 

“Doesn’t it make your heart beat, Elizabeth, when you think that he might

fall—that he might do what I prophesied so long ago—shoot a man before

he’s twenty-five?”

 

She shrugged the supposition calmly away.

 

“My faith in him is based as strongly as the rocks, Vance. But if he

fell, after the schooling I’ve given him, I’d throw him out of my life—

forever.”

 

He paused a moment, studying her face with a peculiar eagerness. Then he

shrugged in turn. “Tush! Of course, that’s impossible. Let’s go down.”

CHAPTER 4

When they reached the front porch, they saw Terence Colby coming up the

terrace from the river road on Le Sangre. And a changed horse he was. One

ear was forward as if he did not know what lay in store for him, but

would try to be on the alert. One ear flagged warily back. He went

slowly, lifting his feet with the care of a very weary horse. Yet, when

the wind fluttered a gust of whirling leaves beside him, he leaped aside

and stood with high head, staring, transformed in the instant into a

creature of fire and wire-strung nerves. The rider gave to the side-spring with supple grace and then sent the stallion on up the hill.

 

Joyous triumph was in the face of Terry. His black hair was blowing about

his forehead, for his hat was pushed back after the manner of one who has

done a hard day’s work and is ready to rest. He came close to the

veranda, and Le Sangre lifted his fine head and stared fearlessly,

curiously, with a sort of contemptuous pride, at Elizabeth and Vance.

 

“The killer is no longer a killer,” laughed Terry. “Look him over, Uncle

Vance. A beauty, eh?”

 

Elizabeth said nothing at all. But she rocked herself back and forth a

trifle in her chair as she nodded. She glanced over the terrace, hoping

that others might be there to see the triumph of her boy. Then she looked

back at Terence. But Vance was regarding the horse.

 

“He might have a bit more in the legs, Terry.”

 

“Not much more. A leggy horse can’t stand mountain work—or any other

work, for that matter, except a ride in the park.”

 

“I suppose you’re right. He’s a picture horse, Terry. And a devilish eye,

but I see that you’ve beaten him.”

 

“Beaten him?” He shook his head. “We reached a gentleman’s agreement. As

long as I wear spurs, he’ll fight me till he gets his teeth in me or

splashes my skull to bits with his heels. Otherwise he’ll keep on

fighting till he drops. But as soon as I take off the spurs and stop

tormenting him, he’ll do what I like. No whips or spurs for Le Sangre.

Eh, boy?”

 

He held out the spurs so that the sun flashed on them. The horse

stiffened with a shudder, and that forward look of a horse about to bolt

came in his eyes.

 

“No, no!” cried Elizabeth.

 

But Terry laughed and dropped the spurs back in his pocket.

 

The stallion moved off, and Terry waved to them. Just as he turned, the

mind of Vance Cornish raced back to another picture—a man with long

black hair blowing about his face and a gun in either hand, sweeping

through a dusty street with shots barking behind him. It came suddenly as

a revelation, and left him downheaded with the thought.

 

“What is it, Vance?” asked his sister, reaching out to touch his arm.

 

“Nothing.” Then he added abruptly: “I’m going for a jaunt for a few days,

Elizabeth.”

 

She grew gloomy.

 

“Are you going to insist on taking it to heart this way?”

 

“Not at all. I’m going to be back here in ten days and drink Terry’s long

life and happiness across the birthday dinner table.”

 

He marvelled at the ease with which he could make himself smile in her

face.

 

“You noticed that—his gentleman’s agreement with Le Sangre? I’ve made

him detest fighting with the idea that only brute beasts fight—men argue

and agree.”

 

“I’ve noticed that he never has trouble with the cow-punchers.”

 

“They’ve seen him box,” chuckled Elizabeth. “Besides, Terry isn’t the

sort that troublemakers like to pick on. He has an ugly look when he’s

angry.”

 

“H’m,” murmured Vance. “I’ve noticed that. But as long as he keeps to his

fists, he’ll do no harm. But what is the reason for surrounding him with

guns, Elizabeth?”

 

“A very good reason. He loves them, you know. Anything from a shotgun to

a derringer is a source of joy to Terence. And not a day goes by that he

doesn’t handle them.”

 

“Certainly the effect of blood, eh?” suggested Vance.

 

She glanced sharply at him.

 

“You’re determined to be disagreeable today, Vance. As a matter of fact,

I’ve convinced him that for the very reason he is so accurate with a gun

he must never enter a gun fight. The advantage would be too much on his

side against any ordinary man. That appeals to Terry’s sense of fair

play. No, he’s absolutely safe, no matter how you look at it.”

 

“No doubt.”

 

He looked away from her and over the valley. The day had worn into the

late afternoon. Bear Creek ran dull and dark in the shadow, and Mount

Discovery was robed in blue to the very edge of its shining crown of

snow. In this dimmer, richer light the Cornish ranch had never seemed so

desirable to Vance. It was not a ranch; it was a little kingdom. And

Vance was the dispossessed heir.

 

He knew that he was being watched, however, and all that evening he was

at his best. At the dinner table he guided the talk so that Terence Colby

was the lion of the conversation. Afterward, when he was packing his

things in his room for his journey of the next day, he was careful to

sing at the top of his voice. He reaped a reward for this cautious

acting, for the next morning, when he climbed into the buckboard that was

to take him down the Blue Mountain road and over to the railroad, his

sister came down the steps and stood beside the wagon.

 

“You will come back for the birthday party, Vance?” she pleaded.

 

“You want me to?”

 

“You were with me when I got Terry. In fact, you got him for me. And I

want you to be here when he steps into his own.”

 

In this he found enough to keep him thoughtful all the way to the

railroad while the buckskins grunted up the grade and then spun away down

the long slope beyond. It was one of those

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