let Gordon crowd you
down," they advised their principal; "put it up against him."

"Haven't you got enough at home," Buckley demanded, "without playing
around here?"

Anger swiftly rose to Gordon Makimmon's head. His hand fell and remained
close by his side. "Keep your tongue off my home," he commanded harshly,
"or you will get more than a horsewhipping."

"By God," Buckley articulated. His face changed from dark to pale, his
mouth opened, his eyes were staring. He fumbled desperately in his pocket.
Gordon's hand closed smoothly, instantly, about the handle of his
revolver. But, before he could level it, an arm shot out from behind him,
and a stone the size of two fists sped like a bullet, striking Buckley
Simmons where his hair and forehead joined. Gordon, in a species of
shocked curiosity and surprise, clearly saw the stone hit the other. There
was a sound like that made by a heel breaking a scum of ice on a frozen
road.

Buckley said, "Ah," half turned, and dropped like a piece of carpet.

The belligerent attitude instantly evaporated from the group behind the
stricken man. "Gracious," some one muttered foolishly. They all joined in
a stooping circle about the prostrate figure. It was seen immediately that
the skull was broken--a white splinter of bone stood up from a matted
surface of blood and hair and dirt. Buckley's eyelids winked continuously
and with great rapidity.

A mingled concern and deep relief swept through Gordon Makimmon. He knew
that, had the stone not been thrown, he would have killed Buckley Simmons.
He wondered if Tol'able had done him that act of loyalty. It had,
probably, fatally wounded its object. He turned with a swift, silent look
of inquiry to Tol'able. The other, unmoved, dexterously shifted a mouthful
of tobacco. "Whoever did that," he observed, "could sure throw a rock."

A crowd gathered swiftly, cautious and murmuring. Simmons was lifted on a
horse blanket to the flooring by the counter. There was an outcry for a
doctor, but none was present, and it was agreed that the wounded man must
be hurried into Greenstream. "He won't get there alive," it was freely
predicted; "the top of his head is crumbled right off."

X

Gordon found Meta Beggs on the outskirt of the throng; she was pale but
otherwise unshaken. "I was sure you were going to shoot Buckley," she told
him.

"So was I," he returned grimly.

"Will he die?"

"It looks bad--his head's cracked. You didn't see a