slate. All his forces were gathered as if for instant action. He was
tense as a coiled spring. His friend noticed that the boy was listening
intently, every faculty concentrated at attention.

A man leaning against the other end of the bar was speaking. He had a
shock of long red hair and a squint to his eyes.

"Sure you're right. A bunch of Webb's gunmen got Ranse--caught him out
alone and riddled him. When Webb drove through here two days ago with
a herd, his killers bragged of it. Ask Harsha up at the Buffalo Corral if
youse don't believe me. Sure as hell's hot we got to go on the war-path.
Here, you Mike! Set 'em up again."

The boy at the table had drawn back his lips so that the canine teeth
stood out like tusks. There was something wolfish about the face, from
which all the color had been driven. It expressed something so deadly, so
menacing, that the young man across from him felt a shock almost of fear.
"We'd better get out of here," he said, glancing toward the group near
the front door.

The other young man did not answer, but he made no move to leave. He was
still taking in every syllable of what the drinkers were saying.

The ex-guerrilla was talking. "Tha's sure sayin' something, Hugh. There
ain't room in New Mexico for Webb's outfit an' ours too."

"Better go slow, boys," advised another. He was a thick-set man in the
late thirties, tight-lipped and heavy-jawed. His eyes were set so close
together that it gave him a sinister expression. "Talkin' don't get us
anywhere. If we're goin' to sit in a game with Homer Webb an' his
punchers we got to play our hand close."

"Buck Sanders, segundo of the Lazy S M ranches," explained again the
young man at the table in a low voice. "Say, kid, let's beat it while
the goin' is good."

The big bow-legged man answered the foreman. "You're right, Buck. So's
Hugh. So's the old rebel. I'm jus' servin' notice that no bunch of
shorthorn punchers can kill a brother of mine an' get away with it.
Un'erstand? I'll meet up with them some day an' I'll sure fog 'em to a
fare-you-well." He interlarded his speech with oaths and foul language.

"I'll bet you do, Dave," chipped in the man next him, who had had a
run-in with the Texas Rangers and was on the outskirts of civilization
because the Lone Star State did not suit his health. "I would certainly
hate to be one of them when yore old six-gun begins to pop. It sure will
be Glory-hallelujah for some one."

Dave Roush ord