t during that time it was only for a
moment or two while passing. But it is certain that Bandy Walker could
not have been both in the blacksmith shop and at Platt & Fortner's five
minutes before eleven. The chances are that some of the town people,
anxious to have even a small part in the drama, mixed in their minds
these strangers with others who had ridden in.

Bob Dillon and Dud Hollister dropped from their saddles in front of the
hotel at just eleven o'clock. They had ridden thirty miles and stood for
a moment stretching the cramp out of their muscles.

Dud spoke, nodding his head to the right. "Look what's here, Sure-Shot.
Yore friend Bandy--old, tried, an' true."

Walker was trailing his high-heeled boots through the dust across the
street from Dolan's toward the big store. If he saw Bob he gave no sign
of knowing him.

The two friends passed into the hotel. They performed the usual rites of
internal and external ablutions. They returned to the bar, hooked their
heels, and swapped with Mike the news of the day.

"Hear Larson's bought the K T brand. Anything to it?" asked Dud.

"Paid seven thousand down, time on the balance," Mike said. "How you lads
makin' it on Elk?"

"Fine. We got the best preemptions on the river. Plenty of good grass,
wood an' water handy, a first-class summer range. It's an A1 layout,
looks like."

"At the end of nowhere, I reckon," Mike grinned.

"The best steers are on the edge of the herd," Dud retorted cheerfully.
"It's that way with ranches too. A fellow couldn't raise much of a herd
in Denver, could he?"

A sound like the explosion of a distant firecracker reached them. It was
followed by a second.

It is strange what a difference there is between the report of one shot
and another. A riotous cowpuncher bangs away into the air to stress the
fact that he is a live one on the howl. Nobody pays the least attention.
A bullet flies from a revolver barrel winged with death. Men at the
roulette wheel straighten up to listen. The poker game is automatically
suspended, a hand half dealt. By some kind of telepathy the players know
that explosion carries deadly menace.

So now the conversation died. No other sound came, but the two cattlemen
and the bartender were keyed to tense alertness. They had sloughed
instantly the easy indolence of casual talk.

There came the slap of running footsteps on the sidewalk. A voice called
in excitement, "They've killed Ferril."

The eyes of the