hat's the way to look at it I don't blame your riders any more than I
blame the guns they fired. _You_ did that killing."

"Even though I was locked up on your ranch, more than twenty miles
away."

"That makes no difference."

"Seems to me it makes some," suggested Keller, speaking for the first
time. "His riders may have acted contrary to orders. He surely did not
give any specific orders in this case."

"His actions for months past have been orders enough," said Cuffs.

"You'd better investigate before you take action," Larrabie urged.

"We've done all the investigating we're going to do. This man has set
himself up like a czar. I'm not going through the list of it all, but he
has more than reached the limit months ago. He's passed it now. He's got
to die, by gum," the old sheepman said, his eyes like frozen stars.

"We all have to do that. Just when does my time come?" Weaver asked.

"Now," cried Sanderson, with a bitter oath.

Phil swallowed hard. He had grown white beneath the tan. The thing they
were about to do seemed awful to him.

"Good God! You're not going to murder him, are you?" protested Larrabie.

"He murdered poor Jesus Menendez, didn't he?"

"You mean you're going to shoot him down in cold blood?"

"What's the matter with hanging?" Slim asked brutally.

"No," spoke up Keller quickly.

The old man nodded agreement. "No--they didn't hang Menendez."

"Your sheep herder died--if he died at all, and we have no proof of
it--with a gun in his hands," Larrabie said.

"That's right," admitted Phil quickly. "That's right. We got to give him
a chance."

"What sort of a chance would you like to give him?" Sanderson asked of
the boy.

"Let him fight for his life. Give him a gun, and me one. We'll settle
this for good and all."

The eyes of the old Confederate gleamed, though he negatived the idea
promptly.

"That wouldn't be a square deal, Phil. He's our prisoner, and he has
killed one of our men. It wouldn't be right for one of us to meet him on
even terms."

"Give me a gun, and I'll meet all of you!" cried Weaver, eyes gleaming.

"By God, you're on! That's a sporting proposition," Sanderson retorted
promptly. "Lets us out, too. I don't fancy killing in cold blood,
myself. Of course we'll get you, but you'll have a run for your money
first, by gum."

"Maybe you'll get me, and maybe you won't. Is this little vendetta to be
settled with revolvers, or rifles?"

"Make it rifles," Phil su