om the straw
mattress he took a heavy, old style Colt revolver. Carson, still
watching him, saw him spin the cylinder, slip a box of fresh cartridges
into his pocket and turn to the door.

"Riding, Bud?" He got to his feet, stuffed his pipe into his pocket
and reached for his hat. "Care if I mosey along?"

"What for?" asked Lee curtly.

"Oh, hell, what's the use being a hawg," Carson grumbled deep down in
his brown throat. "If you're on your way to little ol' Rocky hunting
trouble, if they's going to be shooting-fun, why can't you let me in on
it?"

Lee stood a moment framed in the doorway, frowning down at Carson.
Then he turned on his heel and went out, saying coolly over his
shoulder:

"Come on if you want to. Quinnion's in town."

As their horses' hoofs hammered the winding road for the forty miles
into Rocky Bend the two riders were for the most part silent. All of
the explanation which Lee had to give, or cared to give, was summed up
in the brief words:

"Quinnion's in town."

To Judith, Lee had said that night they fought together at the Upper
End that he had recognized Quinnion's voice; "I played poker with that
voice not four months ago." That he had had ample reason to remember
the man as well, he had not gone on to mention. But Carson knew.

Carson had sat at Lee's left hand that night, across the table from
Chris Quinnion, and had seen the look of naked hatred in two pairs of
eyes when Lee had risen to his feet and coolly branded Quinnion as a
crook and a card sharp. For a little the two men had glared at each
other, their muscles corded and ready, their eyes alert and suspicious,
their hands close to their pockets. Then Quinnion had sneered in that
evil voice of his: "You got the drop on me this time. Look out for the
next." He too had risen and with Lee's eyes hard upon him had gone out
of the room. And Carson had been disappointed in a fight. But
now--now that Bud Lee in this mood was going straight to Rocky Bend and
Quinnion, Carson filled his deep lungs with a sigh of satisfaction.
Life had grown dull here of late; there wasn't a fresh scar on his
battered body.

Though the railroad had at last slipped through it, Rocky Bend was
still a bad little town and proud of its badness. To the northeast lay
the big timber tracts into which the Western Lumber Company was tearing
its destructive way; only nine miles due west were the Rock Creek
mines, running full blast; on the other