CHAPTER 13
Terence Hollis had gone out of the room and up the stairs like a man
stunned or walking in his sleep. Not until he stepped into the familiar
room did the blood begin to return to his face, and with the warmth there
was a growing sensation of uneasiness.
Something was wrong. Something had to be righted. Gradually his mind
cleared. The thing that was wrong was that the man who had killed his
father was now under the same roof with him, had shaken his hand, had sat
in bland complacency and looked in his face and told of the butchery.
Butchery it was, according to Terry’s standards. For the sake of the
price on the head of the outlaw, young Minter had shoved his rifle across
a window sill, taken his aim, and with no risk to himself had shot down
the wild rider. His heart
