"How much have you got
left?" he asked.
"Enough," said Terry.
"Then lemme have another fifty, will you?"
"I'm sorry. I can't quite manage it."
"Make it twenty-five, then."
"Can't do that either, Denver. I'm very sorry."
"Hell, man! Are you a short sport? I got a long jump before me. Ain't you
got any credit around this town?"
"I--not very much, I'm afraid."
"You're kidding me," scowled Denver. "That wasn't Black Jack's way. From
his shoes to his skin everything he had belonged to his partners. His
ghost'll haunt you if you're turning me down, kid. Why, ain't you the
heir of a rich rancher over the hills? Ain't that what I been told?"
"I was," said Terry, "until today."
"Ah! You got turned out for beaning Minter?"
Terry remained silent.
"Without a cent?"
Suddenly the pudgy arm of Denver shot out and his finger pointed into
Terry's face.
"You damn fool! This fifty is the last cent you got in the world!"
"Not at all," said Terry calmly.
"You lie!" Denver struck his knuckles across his forehead. "And I was
going to trim you. Black Jack, I didn't know you was as white as this.
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