ctor Carpy. With one of
these, Sawdy, Harry Tenison from behind the bar was talking. He
interrupted himself to hold his hand over toward Laramie: "Been looking
for you, scout," he said, in balanced tones. "Been looking for you," he
repeated, releasing Laramie's hand and holding up his own. "If you'd
failed me today, Jim----"

"I wouldn't fail you, Harry."

"It's well you didn't--champagne, Luke," he added, calling to a
solemn-faced bartender who wore a forehead shade.

"No champagne for me, Harry," protested Laramie.

"What are you going to have?" asked the mild-voiced bartender,
perfunctorily.

Laramie tilted his hat brim: "Why," he answered, after everybody had
contributed advice, "if I've got to take something on this little boy, a
little whisky, I suppose, Luke."

"No poison served here tonight, Jim," growled Sawdy, throwing his
bloodshot eyes on Laramie.

"I don't want any, anyway, Henry," was the unmoved retort.

Luke, wrapping the cork of the champagne bottle under his long fingers,
hesitated. Tenison, looking with his heavily-lidded eyes, did not waver:
"You'll drink what I tell you tonight," he maintained coldly. "Open it,
Luke."

Laramie stood sidewise while talking, one foot on the rail, his elbow
resting on the bar, and with his head turned he was looking back at
Tenison, who stood directly opposite him behind the bar. Laramie
submitted to the dictation without further protest: "A man will try
anything once," was his only comment.

As he uttered the words he felt a point pressed tightly against his right
side and what was of greater import, heard the familiar click of a gun
hammer.

It was too late to look around; too late to make the slightest move. All
that Laramie could get out of the situation, without moving, he read,
motionless, in Tenison's eyes, for Tenison was now looking straight at
the assailant and with a frozen expression that told Laramie of his
peril. The next instant Laramie heard rough words:

"Turn around here, Jim."

They told him all he needed to know, for in them he recognized the voice.
In the instant between hearing the words and obeying, a singular change
took place in the Falling Wall ranchman's eyes. Looking over at Tenison
his eyes had been keen and clear. Slowly and with a faint smile he
turned his head. When his eyes met those of Tom Stone, who confronted
him pressing the muzzle of a cocked Colt's forty-five gun against his
stomach, they were soft an