in person. And when the door
swung almost open, and he saw Abe Catherson standing in the opening, his
heavy pistol in hand, cocked, a finger on the trigger, he stiffened,
standing silent, looking at the intruder.

Abe's eyes still wore the frenzy that had been in them when he had been
speaking with Ruth. If anything, the frenzy was intensified. His legs
were trembling, the big finger on the trigger of his weapon was
twitching; his lips, almost hidden by the beard, were writhing. He was
like a man who had been seized by some terrible illness fighting it,
resolved to conquer it through sheer effort. His voice stuck in his
throat, issuing spasmodically:

"I've got you, Randerson," he said, "where--I want you! I'm goin' to kill
you, empty my gun in you! You mis'able whelp!" He took two steps into the
room and then halted, tearing at the collar of his shirt with his free
hand, as though to aid his laboring lungs to get the air they demanded.

Randerson's face was white and set, now. He was facing death at the hands
of a man whom he had befriended many times. He did not know Catherson's
motive in coming here, but he knew that the slightest insincere word; a
tone too light or too gruff, the most insignificant hostile movement,
would bring about a quick pressure of the trigger of Catherson's pistol.
Diplomacy would not answer; it must be a battle of the spirit; naked
courage alone could save him, could keep that big finger on the trigger
from movement until he could discover Catherson's motive in coming to
kill him.

He had faced death many times, but never had he faced it at the hands of
a friend, with the strong drag of regard to keep his fingers from his own
weapons. Had Catherson been an enemy, he would have watched him with
different feelings; he would have taken a desperate chance of getting one
of his own pistols to work. But he could not kill Catherson, knowing
there was no reason for it.

He had no difficulty in getting genuine curiosity into his voice, and he
kept it to just the pitch necessary to show his surprise over Catherson's
threat and manner:

"What you reckonin' to kill me for, Abe?"

"For what you done to my Hagar!" The convulsive play of Catherson's
features betrayed his nearness to action. His gun arm stiffened. He spoke
in great gasps, like a man in delirium. "I want you to know--what for.
You come--sneakin'--around--givin' me--money--"

"Steady, there, Abe!"

Randerson's sharp, cold voice act