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 stood up in his throat with revulsion at the
thought of it. Murder, horrible, and cold-blooded, the more horrible
because it was legal.
Something had to be done. What was it?
And when he turned, what he saw was the gun cabinet with a shimmer of
light on the barrels. Then he knew. He selected his favorite Colt and
drew it out. It was loaded, and the action in perfect condition. Many and
many an hour he had practiced and blazed away hundreds of rounds of
ammunition with it. It responded to his touch like a muscular part of his
own body.
He shoved it under his coat, and walking down the stairs again the chill
of the steel worked through to his flesh.
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