"Yore sheep ain't on the south slope range." Shorty's mind had moved
forward one notch toward certainty. Steelman's manner was that of a man
dodging the issue. It carried no conviction of innocence. "How much you
payin' him?"

The door of the inner room opened. Dug Doble's big frame filled the
entrance. The eyes of the two gunmen searched each other. Those of Doble
asked a question. Had it come to a showdown? Steelman sidled over to
the desk where he worked and sat down in front of it. His right hand
dropped into an open drawer, apparently carelessly and without intent.

Shorty knew at once that Doble had been drinking heavily. The man was
morose and sullen. His color was high. Plainly he was primed for a
killing if trouble came.

"Lookin' for me, Shorty?" he asked.

"You fired Bear Canon," charged the cowpuncher.

"So?"

"When I went to saddle."

Doble's eyes narrowed. "You aimin' to run my business, Shorty?"

Neither man lifted his gaze from the other. Each knew that the test had
come once more. They were both men who had "gone bad," in the current
phrase of the community. Both had killed. Both searched now for an
advantage in that steady duel of the eyes. Neither had any fear. The
emotions that dominated were cold rage and caution. Every sense and nerve
in each focalized to one purpose--to kill without being killed.

"When yore's is mine, Dug."

"Is this yore's?"

"Sure is. I've stood for a heap from you. I've let yore ugly temper ride
me. When you killed Tim Harrigan you got me in bad. Not the first time
either. But I'm damned if I'll ride with a coyote low-down enough to burn
the range."

"No?"

"No."

From the desk came the sharp angry bark of a revolver. Shorty felt his
hat lift as a bullet tore through the rim. His eyes swept to Steelman,
who had been a negligible factor in his calculations. The man fired again
and blew out the light. In the darkness Shorty swept out both guns and
fired. His first two shots were directed toward the man behind the desk,
the next two at the spot where Doble had been standing. Another gun was
booming in the room, perhaps two. Yellow fire flashes ripped the
blackness.

Shorty whipped open the door at his back, slid through it, and kicked it
shut with his foot as he leaped from the porch. At the same moment he
thought he heard a groan.

Swiftly he ran to the cottonwood where he had left his horse tied. He
jerked loose the knot, swung to the saddle, and gallo