g off the condition. The man that
tries don't have to belong to Dry Bottom. No stranger is barred!"

The stranger's glance again met the shooter's. The latter grinned
felinely. Then the rider spoke. The crowd gave him its polite
attention.

"I reckon you-all think you've seen some shootin'," he said in a
steady, even voice, singularly free from boast. "But I reckon you
ain't seen any real shootin'." He turned to the tall, grave-faced man.
"I ain't got no hundred," he said, "but I'm goin' to show you."

He still sat in the saddle. But now with an easy motion he swung down
and hitched his pony to the rail.

CHAPTER II

THE STRANGER SHOOTS

The stranger seemed taller on the ground than in the saddle and an
admirable breadth of shoulder and slenderness of waist told eloquently
of strength. He could not have been over twenty-five or six. Yet
certain hard lines about his mouth, the glint of mockery in his eyes,
the pronounced forward thrust of the chin, the indefinable force that
seemed to radiate from him, told the casual observer that here was a
man who must be approached with care.

But apparently the shooter saw no such signs. In the first glance that
had been exchanged between the two men there had been a lack of
ordinary cordiality. And now, as the rider slid down from his pony and
advanced toward the center of the street, the shooter's lips curled.
Writhing through them came slow-spoken words.

"You runnin' sheep, stranger?"

The rider's lips smiled, but his eyes were steady and cold. In them
shone a flash of cold humor. He stood, quietly contemplating his
insulter.

Smiles appeared on the faces of several of the onlookers. The tall man
with the grave face watched with a critical eye. The insult had been
deliberate, and many men crouched, plainly expecting a serious outcome.
But the stranger made no move toward his guns, and when he answered he
might have been talking about the weather, so casual was his tone.

"I reckon you think you're a plum man," he said quietly. "But if you
are, you ain't showed it much--buttin' in with that there wise
observation. An' there's some men who think that shootin' at a man is
more excitin' than shootin' at a can."

There was a grim quality in his voice now. He leaned forward slightly,
his eyes cold and alert. The shooter sneered experimentally. Again
the audience smiled.

But the tall man now stepped forward. "You've made your play,
strange