t for his murderer, and when he had
showered on his enemy every epithet stored in a retentive memory he
struck his empty glass on the bar and shouted:

"Now, you hellcat, shoot!"

It might have been thought Stone would check such a public castigation.
He did not. Impervious to abuse, because master of the situation, he
seemed to enjoy his victim's fury. "I'm finishing up with your gang
around here, McAlpin," he snarled, never losing his grin. "You've run
a rustler's barn in Sleepy Cat long enough. I've warned you and I've
warned Kitchen. It didn't do no good. Fill up your glass, McAlpin."

"Stone, I'd never fill up a glass with you if I was in hell 'n' you
could pull me out."

Stone's grin deepened: "Fill up your glass, McAlpin."

Onlookers, knowing what a refusal would mean, held their breaths. But
McAlpin, white and stubborn, with another oath, again refused.

"Fill it, McAlpin," urged a quiet voice behind the bar. Looking
quickly, like a hunted animal, around, McAlpin saw Harry Tenison,
white-faced and cold, pushing the bottle in friendly fashion toward
him. Every man, save one, watching, hoped he would humor at least that
much his expectant murderer. But the barn-boss had reached a state of
fear and anger that inflamed every stubborn drop in his blood. He
swore he would not fill his glass.

Tenison spoke grimly: "Will you drink it if I fill it, you mule?" he
demanded, picking up the bottle and pouring into both glasses in front
of him.

In the dead silence McAlpin's brain was in a storm. He collected a few
of his wildly flying thoughts. Perhaps he remembered the wife and
Loretta and the babies; at all events he stared at the liquor, gulped
to see whether he could swallow, and, reaching forward, picked up the
glass. Stone lifted his own. The two men, their glasses poised, eyed
each other.

Stone barbed a taunt for his victim: "Goin' to drink, air you?" he
sneered, wreathing his eyes in leering wrinkles.

"No," said a man, unnoticed until then by any except Tenison and Luke,
and speaking as he pushed forward through the crowd to face both Stone
and McAlpin. "He's not going to drink."

[Illustration: "No," said a man, . . . as he pushed forward to face
both Stone and McAlpin. "He's not going to drink"]

Stone's glass was half-way up to his lips; he looked across it and saw
himself face to face with Jim Laramie. Laramie who, unseen, had heard
enough of the quarrel, stood with his coat sl