f that's any of your business," came a gruff reply.
Light, hard, speculative eyes took Pan in from head to feet.

"Do you recognize me?" asked Pan, in the same tone.

"No, Sir, I never saw you in my life," retorted Hardman, his bearded
chin working up and down with the vehemence of his speech. And he
turned away.

Pan made a step. His long arm shot out, and his hand, striking hard Ml
Hardman's shoulder, whirled him round.

"My name's Smith," called Pan, in vibrant loud voice that stilled the
room. "Panhandle Smith!"

"I don't know you, Sir," replied Hardman, aghast and amazed. He began
to redden. He turned to Matthews, as if in wonder that this individual
permitted him to be thus affronted.

"Well, you knew my dad--to his loss," declared Pan. "And that's my
business with you."

"You've no business with me," fumed Hardman.

"Reckon you're mistaken," went on Pan, slowly and easily. "I'm Bill
Smith's boy. And I mean to have an accounting with you on that Texas
cattle deal."

These deliberate words, heard by all within earshot, caused little less
than a deadlock throughout the room. The bartenders quit, the drinkers
poised glasses in the air, the voices suddenly hushed. Pan had an open
space behind him, a fact he was responsible for. He faced Matthews,
Hardman, and then the length of the bar. He left the gamblers behind
to Blinky and Gus, who stood to one side. Pan had invited an argument
with the owner of the Yellow Mine and his sheriff ally. Every
westerner in the room understood its meaning.

"You upstart cowpuncher!" presently shouted Hardman. "Get out of here
or I'll have you arrested."

"Arrest me! What for? I'm only asking you for an honest deal. I can
prove you cheated my father out of cattle. You can't arrest me for
that."

Hardman guffawed boisterously. "Get out of here with your insolent
talk about cattle deals."

"I won't get out. You can't put me out, even if you do own the place."

"I'll--I'll--" choked Hardman, his body leaping with rage, his face
growing purple under his beard. Then he turned to Matthews. "Throw
this drunken cowboy out."

That focused attention upon the sheriff. Pan read in Matthews' eyes
the very things he had suspected. And as he relaxed the mental and
muscular strain under which he had waited, he laughed in Matthews' face.

"Bah! Hardman, you're backed by the wrong man. And at last you've run
into the wrong man. Haven't you sense enough to