hills a cowardly defection. He was furious to think
that Helen had refused to listen to him while she stayed, or to say
good-by to him before leaving. The sting of these various reflections
led him to take further pull at a silver flask which he kept in his
pocket, and which bore the inscription, "To Race Moran from his friends
of the Murray Hill Club."

"So," he muttered, chewing his mustache, "that's what I get for sticking
to Rexhill." Leaning back in his swivel chair, he put his feet up on the
desk and hooked his fingers in the arm-holes of his vest. "Well, I ain't
ready to run yet, not by a jugful."

In his decision to remain, however, he was actuated by a desire to close
with Wade, and not by any enthusiasm for the cause of the hired rascals
who were so loudly singing his praise. They were not cowards, nor was
he, but he had had too much experience with such people to be deluded
into believing that, when the showdown came, they would think of
anything but their own precious skins. He had heard rumors of the
activity of the cattlemen but he discounted such rumors because of many
false alarms in the past. He would not be frightened off; he determined
to remain until there was an actual clash of arms, in the hope that
events would so work out as to allow him a chance to get back, and
severely, at Wade.

He got to his feet and rolled about the room, like a boozy sailor,
puffing out volumes of smoke and muttering beneath his breath. When he
had worked off some of his agitation, the big fellow seated himself
again, shrugged his massive shoulders, and lapsed into an alcoholic
reverie. He was applying his inflamed brain to the problem of vengeance,
when hurried footsteps on the stairs aroused him. Going to the door, he
flung it open and peered out into the dimly lighted hallway.

"Hello, Jed!" he exclaimed, upon finding that the newcomer was one of
his "heelers." "What d'you want? Hic!" He straightened up with a
ludicrous assumption of gravity.

"The night riders! They've...." The man was breathless and visibly
panic-stricken.

"Riders? Hic! What riders?" Moran growled. "Out with it, you
jelly-fish!"

"The ranchers--the cattlemen--they've entered the town: they're on the
warpath. Already a lot of our fellows have been shot up."

"The hell they have! How long ago? Where?"

"Other end of town. Must be two hundred or more. I hustled down here to
put you wise to the play."

"Thanks!" said Moran laconically. "You'