re you got
your hoss?"

"He was running wild," came the gentle answer. "So I took a walk, one
day, and brought him in."

A pause.

"Maybe," grinned the big man, "you creased him?"

For it is one of the most difficult things in the world to capture a
wild horse, and some hunters, in their desperation at seeing the
wonderful animals escape, have tried to "crease" them. That is, they
strive to shoot so that the bullet will barely graze the top of the
animal's vertebrae, just behind the ears, stunning the horse and making
it helpless for the capture. But necessarily such shots are made from a
distance, and little short of a miracle is needed to make the bullet
strike true--for a fraction of an inch too low means death. So another
laugh of appreciation ran around the barroom at the mention of creasing.

"No," answered Barry, "I went out with a halter and after a while Satan
got used to me and followed me home."

They waited only long enough to draw deep breath; then came a long yell
of delight. But the obscure devil was growing stronger and stronger in
Strann. He beat on the bar until he got silence. Then he leaned over to
meet the eyes of Barry.

"That," he remarked through his teeth, "is a damned--lie!"

There is only one way of answering that word in the mountain-desert, and
Barry did not take it. The melancholy brown eyes widened; he sighed, and
raising his glass of lemonade sipped it slowly. Came a sick silence in
the barroom. Men turned their eyes towards each other and then flashed
them away again. It is not good that one who has the eyes and the tongue
of a man should take water from another--even from a Jerry Strann. And
even Jerry Strann withdrew his eyes slowly from his prey, and shuddered;
the sight of the most grisly death is not so horrible as cowardice.

And the devil which was still strong in Strann made him look about for a
new target; Barry was removed from all danger by an incredible barrier.
He found that new target at once, for his glance reached to the corner
of the room and found there the greenish, glimmering eyes of the dog. He
smote upon the bar.

"Is this a damned kennel?" he shouted. "Do I got to drink in a barnyard?
What's the dog doin' here?"

And he caught up the heavy little whiskey glass and hurled it at the
crouching dog. It thudded heavily, but it brought no yelp of pain;
instead, a black thunderbolt leaped from the corner and lunged down the
room. It was the silence of the at