The odor is the
soul of the mountains. A great surety had come to Terry that this was the
last place he would ever see on earth. He was about to die, and he was
glad, in a dim sort of way, that he should die in a place so beautiful.
He looked at the sheriff, who stood calm but puzzled, and at Gainor, who
was very grave, indeed, and returned his look with one of infinite pity,
as though he knew and understood and acquiesced, but was deeply grieved
that it must be so.
"Gentlemen," said Terry, making his voice light and cheerful as he felt
that the voice of a Colby should be at such a time, being about to die,
"I suppose you understand why I have asked you to come here?"
"Yes," nodded Gainor.
"But I'm damned if I do," said the sheriff frankly.
Terry looked upon him coldly. He felt that he had not the slightest
chance of killing this professional manslayer, but at least he would do
his best--for the sake of Black Jack's memory. But to think that his
life--his mind--his soul--all that was dear to him and all that he was
dear to, should ever lie at the command of the trigger of this hard,
crafty, vain, and unimportant fellow! He writhed at the thought.
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