an impression of him that seemed as though it
had been seared into her mind. The eyes that she had thought merciless
were now glittering malevolently, and she shuddered at the satyric
upward curve of his lips as he stepped close to the rock and placed a
hand upon the mass of manuscript lying there, that she had previously
dropped, to prevent her leaving.

"So you don't love me?" he sneered. "You don't even respect me. Why?
Because you've taken a shine to that damned maverick that come here
from Dry Bottom--Stafford's new stray-man!"

"That is my business," she returned icily.

"It sure is," he said, the words writhing venomously through his lips.
"An' it's my business too. There ain't any damned----"

He had glanced suddenly downward while he had been talking and his gaze
rested upon an upturned page of the manuscript that lay beside him on
the rock. He broke off speaking and reaching down took up the page,
his eyes narrowing with interest. The page he had taken up was one
from the first chapter and described in detail the shooting match in
Dry Bottom. It was a truthful picture of what had actually happened.
She had even used the real names of the characters. Leviatt saw a
reference to the "Silver Dollar" saloon, to the loungers, to the
stranger who had ridden up and who sat on his pony near the hitching
rail, and who was called Ferguson. He saw his own name; read the story
of how the stranger had eclipsed his feat by putting six bullets into
the can.

He dropped the page to the rock and looked up at Miss Radford with a
short laugh.

"So that's what you're writin'?" he sneered. "You're writin' somethin'
that really happened. You're even writin' the real names an' tellin'
how Stafford's stray-man butted in an' beat me shootin'. You knowin'
this shows that him an' you has been travelin' pretty close together."

For an instant Miss Radford forgot her anger. Her eyes snapped with a
sudden interest.

"Were you the man who hit the can five times?" she questioned, unable
to conceal her eagerness.

She saw a flush slowly mount to his face. Evidently he had said more
than he had intended.

"Well, if I am?" he returned, his lips writhing in a sneer. "Him
beatin' me shootin' that way don't prove nothin'."

She was now becoming convinced of her cleverness. From Ben's
description of the man who had won the shooting match she had been able
to lead Ferguson to the admission that he had been the central
c