e-horn as if to mount, indicating by his
action that the visit should come to an end. Shanklin, who was not in
the least sensitive on the matter of social rebuffs, did not appear to
be inclined to accept the hint. He shifted his legs, thrusting one of
them forward in a lounging attitude, and dug in his trousers pockets
with his long, skinny hands.

"Well, spit it out and have it over with!" snapped Slavens, feeling that
there was something behind the man's actions to which he had not given
words.

"That was a purty good coat I left with you that night," suggested
Shanklin, looking up without the slightest stirring of humor in his dry
face.

"You're welcome to it, if that's all," said Slavens.

"That's all. I was kind of attached to that coat."

Slavens left him standing there and entered the tent, feeling that
Shanklin was as irresponsible morally as a savage. Evidently the
inconsequential matter of an attempt at murder should not be allowed to
stand between friends, according to the flat-game man's way of viewing
life. It appeared that morning as if Shanklin had no trace of malice in
him on account of the past, and no desire to pursue further his
underhanded revenge. Conscience was so little trouble to him that he
could sit at meat with a man one hour and stick a knife in his back the
next.

The coat was under a sack of oats, somewhat the worse for wrinkles and
dust. Slavens gave it a shake, smoothed the heaviest of the creases with
his hand, and went out to deliver it to its owner.

Shanklin was facing the other way, in the direction of his own camp. His
attitude was in sharp contrast with the easy, lounging posture of a few
moments before. He was tense and alert, straining forward a little, his
lean body poised as if he balanced for a jump. There was a clattering on
the small stones which strewed the ground thickly there, as of somebody
approaching, but the bulk of the horse was between Slavens and the view,
as the doctor stopped momentarily in the door of the low tent.

Clearing the tent and standing upright, Slavens saw Boyle and Ten-Gallon
coming on hurriedly. They had been to Shanklin's camp evidently, looking
for him. From the appearance of both parties, there was something in the
wind.

Boyle was approaching rapidly, Ten-Gallon trailing a bit, on account of
his shorter legs perhaps, or maybe because his valor was even briefer
than his wind. Boyle seemed to be grinning, although there was no mirth
in