"Besides, it wasn't murder. It was plain self-defense. Nothing but that.
Three witnesses to swear to it. But, my, my--you should hear that town
rave. They thought nobody could beat Larrimer."
The girl slipped back into her chair again and sat with her chin in her
hand, brooding. It was all impossible--it could not be. Yet there was
Denver telling his story, and far away the clear baritone of Terry Hollis
singing as he cared for El Sangre.
She waited to make sure, waited to see his face and hear him speak close
at hand. Presently the singing rang out more clearly. He had stepped out
of the barn.
Oh, I am a friar of orders gray,
Through hill and valley I take my way.
My long bead roll I merrily chant;
Wherever I wander no money I want!
And as the last word rang through the room, Terry Hollis stood in the
doorway, with his saddle and bridle hanging over one strong arm and his
gun and gun belt in the other hand. And his voice came cheerily to them
in greeting. It was impossible--more impossible than ever.
He crossed the room, hung up his saddle, and found her sitting near. What
should he say? How would his color change? In what way could he face her
with that stain in his soul?
And this was what Terry said to her: "I'm going to teach El Sangre to let
you ride him, Kate.
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