But it was impossible to re-create that face other than as a
bulldog in the human flesh. The craft and the courage of a fighter were
written large in those features.
"I've been leading--a quiet life," he said gently.
The other grinned. "Sure--quiet," he chuckled. "And then you wake up and
bust Minter for your first crack. You began late, son, but you may go
far. Pretty tricky with the gat, eh?"
He nodded in anticipatory admiration.
"Old Minter had a name. Ain't I had my run-in with him? He was smooth
with a cannon. And fast as a snake's tongue. But they say you beat him
fair and square. Well, well, I call that a snappy start in the world!"
Terry was silent, but his companion refused to be chilled.
"That's Black Jack over again," he said. "No wind about what he'd done.
No jabber about what he was going to do. But when you wanted something
done, go to Black Jack. Bam! There it was done clean for you and no talk
afterward. Oh, he was a bird, was your old man. And you take after him,
right enough!"
A voice rose in Terry. He wanted to argue. He wanted to explain. It was
not that he felt any consuming shame because he was the son of Black Jack
Hollis.
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