ed-up blankets the stout figure and round, unshaven
face of--Slim McCabe.

As he stood staring at the fellow, there was a stir from further down the
room and a sleepy voice growled:

"What's the matter? It ain't time to get up yet, is it?"

Buck, who had just caught a glint of steel on the floor at the edge of the
bunk, pulled himself together.

"No; I--I must have had a--nightmare," he returned in a realistically
dazed tone. "I was dreaming about--rustlers, and thought I heard somebody
walking around."

Still watching McCabe surreptitiously, he saw the fellow's lids lift
sleepily.

"W'a's matter?" murmured Slim, blinking at the lamp.

"Nothing. I was dreaming. What the devil are you doing in that bunk?"

McCabe appeared to rouse himself with an effort and partly sat up, yawning
prodigiously.

"It was hot in my own, so I come over here to get the air from the
window," he mumbled. "What's the idea of waking a guy up in the middle of
the night?"

Buck did not answer for a moment but, stepping back, trod as if by
accident on the end of his trailing blanket. As he intended, the movement
sent his holster and belt tumbling to the floor, and with perfect
naturalness he stooped to pick them up. When he straightened, his face
betrayed nothing of the grim satisfaction he felt at having proved his
point. The bit of steel was a hunting-knife with a seven-inch blade, sharp
as a razor, and with a distinctive stag-horn handle, which Tex Lynch had
used only a few evenings before to remove the skin from a coyote he had
brought down.

"Sorry, but I was dreaming," drawled Stratton. "No harm done, though, is
there? You ain't likely to stay awake long."

Without further comment he blew out the light and crawled into bed again.
He found no difficulty now in keeping awake for the remainder of the
night; there was too much to think about and decide. Now that he had
measured the lengths to which Lynch seemed willing to go, he realized that
a continuance of present conditions was impossible. An exact repetition of
this particular attempt was unlikely, but there were plenty of variations
against which no single individual could hope to guard. He must bring
things to a head at once, either by quitting the ranch, by playing the
important card of his own identity he had so far held back, or else by
finding some other way of tying Lynch's hands effectually. He was equally
reluctant to take either of the two former steps, and so it plea