drinks, ain't it, Bat?"
grinned Tex.

"Ba Goss! Heem look lak' Circle J boun' for be wan man short," replied
the half-breed, and the girl, upon whom not a word nor a move had been
lost, noticed that Purdy's jaw tightened as the Texan laughed at the
apparently irrelevant remark.

The outlaw shuddered as the heavy saddle was thrown upon his back and
the cinch ring deftly caught with a loop of rope and made fast.

Out on the flat number four, on the pinto outlaw, had hit the dirt,
number five had ridden through on a dead one, and number six had quit
his in mid-air.

"Next horse--number seven!" called the Mayor. The cowboy who had the
broncho in tow headed out on the flat prepared to throw off his dallies
and two others, including Purdy, rode forward quirt in hand, to haze
the hate-blinded outlaw from crashing into the wagons. With his hand
gripping the cheek-strap, Tex turned and looked straight into Purdy's
eyes.

"Go crawl under a wagon an' chaw a bone," he said in a low even voice,
"I'll whistle when I want _you_." For an instant the men's glances
locked, while the onlookers held their breath. Purdy was not a
physical coward. The insult was direct, uttered distinctly, and in the
hearing of a crowd. At his hip was the six-gun with which he had just
won a shooting contest--yet he did not draw. The silence was becoming
painful when the man shrugged, and without a word, turned his horse
away. Someone laughed, and the tension broke with a hum of low-voiced
conversation.

"Next horse, ready!"

As the crowd drew back Alice Marcum leaned close to Purdy's ear.

"I think it was splendid!" she whispered; "it was the bravest thing I
ever saw." The man could scarcely believe his ears.

"Is she kiddin' me?" he wondered, as he forced his glance to the girl's
face. But no, she was in earnest, and in her eyes the man read
undisguised admiration. She was speaking again.

"Any one of these," she indicated the crowd with a sweep of her gloved
hand, "would have shot him, but it takes a real man to preserve perfect
self-control under insult."

The cowpuncher drew a long breath. "Yes; mom," he answered; "it was
pretty tough to swaller that. But somehow I kind of--of hated to shoot
him." Inwardly he was puzzled. What did the girl mean? He realized
that she was in earnest and that he had suddenly become a hero in her
eyes. Fate was playing strangely into his hands. A glitter of triumph
flashed into his eyes, a