em just the same."

The voice of Wrayburn was still gentle, but it no longer pleaded for
understanding. The words were clean-cut and crisp.

"I'll show you!" flung back the foreman with an oath.

When the little group of cavalry was gathered for the start, Yankie,
rifle in hand, barred the way. His face was ugly with the fury of his
anger.

Dad Wrayburn rode forward in front of his party. "Don't git promiscuous
with that cannon of yours, Joe. You've done yore level best to keep us
here. But we're goin' just the same. We-all will tell the old man how
tender you was of his remuda stock. That will let you out."

"Don't you come another step closeter, Dad Wrayburn!" the foreman
shouted. "I'll let you know who is boss here."

Wrayburn did not raise his voice. The drawl in it was just as pronounced,
but every man present read in it a warning.

"This old sawed-off shotgun of mine spatters like hell, Joe. It always
did shoot all over the United States an' Texas."

There was an instant of dead silence. Each man watched the other
intently, the one cool and determined, the other full of a volcanic fury.
The curtain had been rung up for tragedy.

A man stepped between them, twirling carelessly a rawhide rope.

"Just a moment, gentlemen. I think I know a way to settle this without
bloodshed." Jack Goodheart looked first at the ex-Confederate, then at
the foreman. He was still whirling as if from absent-minded habit the
loop of his reata.

"We're here to listen, Jack. That would suit me down to the ground,"
answered Wrayburn.

The loop of the lariat snaked forward, whistled through the air, dropped
over the head of Yankie, and tightened around his neck. A shot went
wildly into the air as the rifle was jerked out of the hands of its
owner, who came to the earth with sprawling arms. Goodheart ran forward
swiftly, made a dozen expert passes with his fingers, and rose without a
word.

Yankie had been hog-tied by the champion roper of the Southwest.

Chapter XV

Lee Plays a Leading Role

A man on horseback clattered up the street and drew up at the Snaith
house. He was a sandy-complexioned man with a furtive-eyed, apologetic
manner. Miss Bertie Lee recognized him as one of the company riders named
Dumont.

"Is yore paw home, Miss Lee?" he asked breathlessly.

"Some one to see you, dad," called the girl over her shoulder.

Wallace Snaith sauntered out to the porch. "'Lo, Dumont!"

"I claim that hundred dol