ber had more than once come to shipwreck. No doubt some
busybody, seeking to curry favor with him, had run to this Clanton with
the tale of how Mysterious Pete had sworn to kill him on sight.

The bad man was sour on the world this morning. He prided himself on
being always a dead shot, but such a night as he had spent would not help
his chances. There could be no doubt that his nerves were jumpy. What he
needed was a few hours' sleep.

He would have taken a back street if he had dared, but to do so would
have been a confession of doubt. The killer can afford to let nobody
guess that he is afraid. When such a suspicion becomes current he might
as well order his coffin. The men whom he holds in the subjection of fear
will all be taking a chance with him.

So Mysterious Pete, bad man and murderer, coward at heart to the marrow,
strutted toward his rooming-house with a heart full of hate to everybody.
The pleasant morning sunshine was an offense to him. A care-free laugh on
the breeze made him grit his teeth irritably. Particularly he hated Dave
Roush. For Roush had led him into this cunningly by bribery and flattery.
He had fed the jealousy of Pete, who could not brook the thought of a
rival bad man in his own territory. He had hinted that perhaps Champa had
better steer clear of this youth, whose reputation as a killer had grown
so amazingly. Ever since Clanton had killed Warren the bad man had
intended to "get him." But he had meant to do it without taking any risk.
His idea was to pretend to be his friend, push a gun into his stomach,
and down him before he could move. Now by his folly he had to take a
fighting chance. Dave Roush, to save his own skin, had pushed him into
danger. All this was quite clear to him now, and he raged at the
knowledge.

Champa, too, was at another disadvantage. He was not sure that he would
know Clanton when he saw him. He had set eyes on the young fellow once,
on that occasion when he had gone with Warren to demand an inspection of
the Flying V Y herd. But he had seen him only as one of a group of
cowpunchers and not as an individual enemy, whereas it was quite certain
that Go-Get-'Em Jim would recognize him.

From out of a doorway stepped a young fellow with his hand on his hip.
Pete's six-gun flashed upward in a quarter curve even as the bullet
crashed on its way. The youth staggered against the wall and sank
together into a heap. Champa, every sense alert, fired again, then waited
w