Black Jack was a wildcat when it come to fighting with his hands. When he
got through with the Irishman, there wasn't a sound place on the fool.
Black Jack climbed back on his horse and threw the gun back at the guy on
the ground and rode off. Next we heard, the guy was working for a
Chinaman that run a restaurant. Black Jack had taken all the fight out of
him."
That scene out of the past drifted vividly back before Terry's eyes. He
saw the sneer on the lips of Black Jack; saw the Irishman go for his gun;
saw the clash, with his father leaping in with tigerish speed; felt the
shock of the two strong bodies, and saw the other turn to pulp under the
grip of Black Jack.
By the time he had finished visualizing the scene, his jaw was set hard.
It had been easy, very easy, to throw himself into the fierceness of his
dead father's mood. During this moment of brooding he had been looking
down, and he did not notice the glance of Denver fasten upon him with an
almost hypnotic fervor, as though he were striving to reach to the very
soul of the younger man and read what was written there. When Terry
looked up, the face of his companion was as calm as ever.
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