into the lock and, opening the door, entered and
closed it behind him.

Two men sat in the room, Doubleday and Stone. Stone was just out of the
barber's chair, his hair parted and faultlessly plastered on both sides
across his forehead, and his face shaven and powdered. His forehead
drawn in horizontal wrinkles rather than vertical ones, looked lower and
flatter because of them. To add to the truculence of his natural
expression, he was now somewhat under the influence of liquor and looked
perplexed.

Van Horn did not wait to be questioned; he walked directly to the table
between the two men and took a cigar from the open box: "Can't do a thing
with that fellow," he reported brusquely.

Doubleday, by means of questions, got the story of the fruitless
interview. Stone listened. The slow movement of his eyes showed an
effort but none of the story escaped him.

Van Horn, answering with some impatience, had lighted one cigar, and
bunching half a dozen more in his hand stowed them in an upper waistcoat
pocket. Doubleday, between heavy jaws and large teeth, shifted slowly or
chewed savagely at a half-burned cigar and bored into Van Horn. Van Horn
was in no mood for speculative comment: "You might as well talk to a
wildcat," he said. "Pulling that wire has left him sore all over."

Doubleday looked at Stone vindictively: "That was your scheme."

"No more than it was Van Horn's," retorted Stone.

"What's the use squabbling over that now?" demanded Van Horn impatiently.
"I'm done, Barb. You've got to go ahead without him."

Doubleday chewed his cigar in silence. Van Horn, restless and
humiliated, spoke angrily and thought fast. From time to time he looked
quickly at Stone--the foreman was in condition to do anything.

"Look here, Tom," exclaimed Van Horn in low tones, "suppose you go
downstairs and give him a talk yourself. What do you say, Barb?" He
shot the words at Doubleday like bullets. Doubleday understood and his
teeth clicked sharply. He said nothing---only stared at the foreman with
his stony gray eyes. Stone drew his revolver from his hip and, breaking
the gun, slipped out the cartridges and slipped the five mechanically
back into place.

Laramie in the meantime had joined a group of men at the upper end of the
bar in the billiard hall--McAlpin, Joe Kitchen's barn boss; Henry Sawdy,
the big sporty stock buyer of the town, and the profane but always
dependable druggist and railroad surgeon, Do