y closely. A likeness to someone whom
he could not place stirred faintly his memory.

"Who are you? What's yore name?" he snapped out.

The boy had risen from the chair. His hand rested on his hip as if
casually. But Dave had observed the sureness of his motions and he
accepted nothing as of chance. The experience of Roush was that a gunman
lives longer if he is cautious. His fingers closed on the butt of the
revolver at his side.

"My name is James Clanton."

Roush let fall a surprised oath. "It's 'Lindy Clanton you look like!
You're her brother--the kid, Jimmie."

"You've guessed it, Devil Dave."

The eyes of the two crossed like rapiers.

"Howcome you here? Whad you want?" asked Roush thickly.

Already he had made up his mind to kill, but he wanted to choose his own
moment. The instinct of the killer is always to take his enemy at
advantage. Clanton, with that sixth sense which serves the fighter, read
his purpose as if he had printed it on a sign.

"You know why I'm here--to stomp the life out of you an' yore brother for
what you done to my sister. I've listened to yore brags about what you
would do when you met up with them that killed Ranse Roush. Fine! Now
let's see you make good. I'm the man that ran him down an' put an end to
him. Go through, you four-flushin' coward! Come a-shootin' whenever
you're ready."

The young Southerner had a definite motive in his jeering. He wanted to
drive his enemies to attack him before they could come at him from two
sides.

"You--you killed Ranse?"

"You heard me say it once." The eyes of the boy flashed for a moment to
the red-headed man. "Whyfor are you dodgin' back of the bar, Hugh
Roush? Ain't odds of two to one good enough for you--an' that one only a
kid--without you runnin' to cover like the coyote you are? Looks like
you'll soon be whinin' for me not to shoot, just like Ranse did."

If any one had cared to notice, the colored roust-about might have been
seen at that moment vanishing out of the back door to a zone of safety.
He showed no evidence whatever of being sleepy.

The silence that followed the words of the boy was broken by Quantrell's
old grayback. Dave Roush was a bad man--a killer. He had three notches on
his gun. Perhaps he had killed others before coming West. At any rate, he
was no fair match for this undersized boy.

"He's a kid, Dave. You don't want to gun a kid. You, Clanton--whatever
you call yourself--light a shuck pronto--git out!"