course, it is more virulent."

"Do you think there is likely to be any violence this time?" she
asked, with a tremor of anxiety in her voice.

"There is violent talk already. I heard more than one man say that
Mead ought to be lynched"--he was watching her face as he talked--"and
his two friends, Ellhorn and Tuttle, along with him. There is a great
deal of feeling against Mead, and the general idea seems to be that he
is an inveterate cattle thief, and that the country would be better
off without him."

She turned an indignant face and flashing eyes upon him and opened her
mouth to reply. Then she blushed a little, caught her breath, and
asked him if he thought her father was in any danger. When Wellesly
left her he said to himself: "That's an unusually fine girl. Handsome,
too. Or she would be if she didn't wear English shoes and walk like an
elephant. She seems to be interested in Emerson Mead, but old Delarue
certainly wouldn't permit anything serious. He's too ardently on our
side, or thinks he is, the old French windbag, though he's never even
been naturalized. I'll see her again while I'm here and find out if
there is anything between them. It might have some consequence for us
if there is. I wish the Colonel hadn't got the company so mixed up in
their political quarrels. But there may be an advantage in it, after
all, for I guess it will furnish the easiest way of getting rid of
those one-horse outfits. The old man's got the upper hand now, and as
long as he keeps it we'll be all right."

Marguerite Delarue stood on her veranda looking after Wellesly as he
walked away. "What a nice looking man he is," ran her thoughts. "He is
interesting to talk with, too. The people here may be just as good as
he is, but--well, at least, he isn't tongue-tied."

Ellhorn and Tuttle met Emerson Mead as he stepped from his room,
freshly shaven and clad in black frock coat and vest, gray trousers
and newly polished shoes. As he listened to Ellhorn's account of the
sudden storm that was already shaking the little town from end to end,
a yellow light flashed in his brown eyes and there came into them an
intent, defiant look, the look of battle, like that in the eyes of a
captured eagle. He went back into the room, buckled on a full
cartridge belt, and transferred his revolver from his waistband to its
usual holster.

"Now, boys," said Mead, "we'll go back up town and have a drink, and
I'll talk with Judge Harlin about this matte