rticulars."

"There ain't any need of them knowing. If Phyl had wanted them to know,
she could have told them," said Tom sulkily. He had got carefully to his
feet, and was nursing his face with a handkerchief.

"We'll go and break our news together," suggested the other cheerfully.
"You tell them you think Weaver is in her room, and I'll tell them my
little spiel."

"There's no need telling them about me shooting Weaver, far as I can
see. I'd rather they didn't know."

"For that matter, there's no need telling them your notions about where
Buck is right now."

Tom said nothing, but his dogged look told Larrabie that he was not
persuaded.

"I tell you what we'll do," said Keller, then: "We'll unload on them
both stories, or we won't tell them either. Which shall it be?"

Dixon understood that an ultimatum was being served on him. For, though
his former foe was smiling, the smile was a frosty one.

"Just as you say. I reckon it's your call," he acquiesced sourly.

"No--I'm going to leave it to you," grinned Larrabie.

The man he had thrashed looked as if he would like to kill him. "We'll
close-herd both stories, then."

"Good enough! Don't let me keep you any longer, if you're in a hurry.
Now we've had our little talk, I'm satisfied."

But Dixon was not satisfied. He was stiff and sore physically, but
mentally he was worse. He had played a poor part, and must still do so.
If he went down to the ranch with his face in that condition, he could
not hope to escape observation. His vanity cried aloud against
submitting to the comment to which he would be subjected. The whole
story of the thrashing would be bound to come out.

"I can't go down looking like this," he growled.

"Do you have to go down?"

"Have to get my horse, don't I?"

"I'll bring it to you."

"And say nothing about--what has happened?"

"I don't care to talk of it any more than you do. I'll be a clam."

"All right--I'll wait here." Tom sat down on a boulder and chewed
tobacco, his head sunk in his clenched palms.

Keller walked down the trail to the ranch. He was glad to go in place of
Dixon; for he felt that the young man was unstable and could not be
depended upon not to fall into a rage, and, in a passionate impulse,
tell all he knew. He saddled the horse, explaining casually to the
wrangler that he had lost a bet with Tom, by the terms of which he had
to come down and saddle the latter's mount.

He swung to the back of the pony a