ackton was waiting upon them. Slone stood back a little in the
shadow. Brackton had observed his entrance, but did not greet him. Then
Slone absolutely knew that for him the good will of Bostil's Ford was a
thing of the past.

Presently Brackton was at leisure, but he showed no disposition to
attend to Slone's wants. Then Slone walked up to the counter and asked
for supplies.

"Have you got the money?" asked Brackton, as if addressing one he would
not trust.

"Yes," replied Slone, growing red under an insult that he knew Wetherby
had heard.

Brackton handed out the supplies and received the money, without a
word. He held his head down. It was a singular action for a man used to
dealing fairly with every one. Slone felt outraged. He hurried out of
the place, with shame burning him, with his own eyes downcast, and in
his hurry he bumped square into a burly form. Slone recoiled--looked
up. Bostil! The old rider was eying him with cool speculation.

"Wal, are you drunk?" he queried, without any particular expression.

Yet the query was to Slone like a blow. It brought his head up with a
jerk, his glance steady and keen on Bostil's.

"Bostil, you know I don't drink," he said.

"A-huh! I know a lot about you, Slone.... I heard you bought Vorhees's
place, up on the bench."

"Yes."

"Did he tell you it was mortgaged to me for more'n it's worth?"

"No, he didn't."

"Did he make over any papers to you?"

"No."

"Wal, if it interests you I'll show you papers thet proves the
property's mine."

Slone suffered a pang. The little home had grown dearer and dearer to
him.

"All right, Bostil. If it's yours--it's yours," he said, calmly enough.

"I reckon I'd drove you out before this if I hadn't felt we could make
a deal."

"We can't agree on any deal, Bostil," replied Slone, steadily. It was
not what Bostil said, but the way he said it, the subtle meaning and
power behind it, that gave Slone a sense of menace and peril. These he
had been used to for years; he could meet them. But he was handicapped
here because it seemed that, though he could meet Bostil face to face,
he could not fight him. For he was Lucy's father. Slone's position, the
impotence of it, rendered him less able to control his temper.

"Why can't we?" demanded Bostil. "If you wasn't so touchy we could. An'
let me say, young feller, thet there's more reason now thet you DO make
a deal with me."

"Deal? What about?"

"About your red hoss."