accordin' to my notion, there's two men never would be
missed in this country, anyway, if nobody ever seen 'em again. 'N' if
my count is anywhere near right, nobody ever will see 'em again. They
chased Laramie one foot too far--just one foot--'n' it looks as if they
got what was comin' to 'em. I won't name 'em--they won't bother no
more in this country."

He had become so absorbed in his recital that the entrance into the
bar-room from the barber shop of a booted and spurred man escaped him.
The man, advancing deliberately, heard the last of McAlpin's words. He
got fairly close to the unsuspecting barn boss unobserved. A few in
the listening circle, noting the approach of the new arrival, stepped
back a little--for, of all men that might be expected, after McAlpin's
dark intimations, to appear, then and there, alive and aggressive, was
Tom Stone.

Freshly barbered, head forward, keen eyes peering from under staring,
sandy brows; thumbs stuck in his belt and his face framing a confident
leer. Stone sauntering forward, listened to McAlpin. So intent was
McAlpin on impressing his hearers that the foreman elbowed his way,
before McAlpin saw him, directly to the front.

"So you won't name 'em?" grinned Stone, confronting the startled
speaker. McAlpin caught his breath. The wiry Scotchman was not a
coward, but he knew the merciless cruelty of Stone. Armed, McAlpin
would have been no man to affront his deadly skill; he now faced him
unarmed.

Stone, leaving his right hand hooked by the thumb in his belt, rested
his left elbow on the bar. The bartender, Luke, just back of him,
leaning forward, mopped the bar more slowly and, listening, moved a
little farther down the bar until his fingers rested on an electric
button underneath connecting with Tenison's office in the hotel.

"Name the two men, McAlpin," said Stone, ominously, "while you're able
to talk."

McAlpin exhausted his ingenuity in his efforts to evade his danger, but
Stone drew the noose about him tighter and tighter. He played the
unlucky man with all the malice of an executioner. He baited him and
toyed with him. McAlpin, white, stood his ground. His fighting blood
was all there and he broke at length into a torrent of abuse of the man
that he realized was bent on murdering him.

Made eloquent by desperation, McAlpin never rose to greater heights of
profane candor. It was as if he were making his last will and
testament of hatred and contemp