Hungry Horse news and Columbian. [volume] (Columbia Falls, Mont.) 1946-1948, 1947-12-12
CHAPTER 1

of French Mesa and looked down or
Round Top. 1t was an ugly little
place, bleak and sun-dried, but ever
since he could remember, it hao
been his town. Here he had come
with his father in a blackboard, a
very small boy, and exchanged his
nickel for striped stick candy from
a jar on the counter of Clint Ev-
ans store.
They had been good days, those
carefree ones before he had been
bitten by the urge to make of him.
self something more than a thirty
dollar-a-month cowpuncher. 1t had
been gay world. Money had burnt
a hole in his pocket, and he had
counted friends by the score. Half
a dozen years had made change.
He had developed from a hired hand
on horseback, one of hundred who
rode the Buck River country, to a
man of weight in the community. A
seasoned man, hard and steely, he
followed with no lack of assurance
the path he had picked out for him
self. If his popularity had vanished
and his friends had dropped away,
that was the price he paid for sue
cess.
A young man in shiny leather
chaps met and passed him without
a flicker of recognition in the blue
eyes, grown suddenly hard and cold.
He was Bill Herriott, joint owner
with his father of small ranch
near the Diamond Reverse B. Terry
had known him ever since they had
ridden their first roundup. A dozen
times they had stood together, a
pair of gangling boys. in the stag
line of country dances.
The road ran into the courthouse
square. Terry swung from the sad
Gle and hitched at rack in front
of Clint Evans store.
Two men in dusty boots and wide
white hats were lounging in the en-
trance of the store Their talk died
away at the approach of Terry. With
studied care, they drew aside to let
him pass. Not. so long ago Roam
Afford would have greeted him with
jubilant welcome. Jack Turley was |
a newcomer in the country.
Evans waited on Terry. The store
keeper was tall, lean man with
chin whiskers and a clean-shaven |
upper lip that gave him precise,
almost sanctimonious appearance.
He had the same dry, ageless look |
he had brought with him from Yer
mont twenty-five years earlier.
He nodded greeting. How are !,
you, CALI" he asked.
A third man had joined the two
in the doorway, and all Of them
were watching Terry. The late-com-
er was Lee Hart, a heavy-set, bow
legged man of about forty. His
brother Nate was sheriff of the coun-
ty. All the Harris had been for
long time enemies of Calhoun Terry.
AS Terry bought bill of goods,
apparently ignoring those who
him, the deeper current
Of his mind was busy with the re-
sentiment beating against him al
most like something tangible. Cal
noun had lived too long outdoors in
a wild country not to have that sixth
sense of danger close and imme-
iiate.
He asked for a case of cartridges
or a Winchester. Evans got the
cardboard box and put it with the
,ther supplies.
From the Swallowed darkness back
If the big drum stove a voice
.ame cold as wind blowing over
glacier.
Going hunting again, Terry?"
Calhoun picked out the significant
word in the query.
Again." he asked, stressing the
yllables.
Why, yes, that's what / said"
here was both mockery and de-
ance in Jeff Brands jeering voice.
Don't tell us they didn't let you in
n the Killing of Buck Hart?"
Terry looked at the man with hard
ltentness. SIS Buck Hart dead?"
You know damn we'll he's dead"
Take care, Brand" the ranch
manager warned.
Brand laughed hardly. Reckless q,
ghts cleaned in his eyes. You're
ne of the big moguls now, aren't
on? They wouldn't murder Buck
,ithout yore say-so, would they?"
who killed him?"
Hell, I'm not giving you infor-
nation. Not none. You don't need r
ny. Your friends the big cattle =
len killed him. because he was in
lie way"
How do you know? Were there :
ny Witnesses"
In Brands UOice was q r,Ict1o IF