"'Sure. I know the Ranger's cashed,' replied Blome. 'It's not that. I'm
sore, boys.'

"'Deader 'n a door-nail in hell!' replied Pickens, louder, as he lifted
his glass. 'Here's to Lone Star Steele's ghost! An' if I seen it this
minnit I'd ask it to waltz with me!'

"The back door swung violently, and Steele, huge as a giant, plunged
through and leaped square in front of that table.

"Some one of them let out a strange, harsh cry. It wasn't Blome or
Snecker--probably Pickens. He dropped the glass he had lifted. The cry
had stilled the room, so the breaking of the glass was plainly heard.
For a space that must have been short, yet seemed long, everybody stood
tight. Steele with both hands out and down, leaned a little, in a way I
had never seen him do. It was the position of a greyhound, but that was
merely the body of him. Steele's nerve, his spirit, his meaning was
there, like lightning about to strike. Blome maintained a ghastly,
stricken silence.

"Then the instant was plain when he realized this was no ghost of
Steele, but the Ranger in the flesh. Blome's whole frame rippled as
thought jerked him out of his trance. His comrades sat stone-still. Then
Hilliard and Pickens dived without rising from the table. Their haste
broke the spell.

"I wish I could tell it as quick as it happened. But Bo Snecker, turning
white as a sheet, stuck to Blome. All the others failed him, as he had
guessed they would fail. Low curses and exclamations were uttered by men
sliding and pressing back, but the principals were mute. I was thinking
hard, yet I had no time to get to Steele's side. I, like the rest, was
held fast. But I kept my eyes sweeping around, then back again to that
center pair.

"Blome slowly rose. I think he did it instinctively. Because if he had
expected his first movement to start the action he never would have
moved. Snecker sat partly on the rail of his chair, with both feet
square on the floor, and he never twitched a muscle. There was a
striking difference in the looks of these two rustlers. Snecker had
burning holes for eyes in his white face. At the last he was staunch,
defiant, game to the core. He didn't think. But Blome faced death and
knew it. It was infinitely more than the facing of foes, the taking of
stock, preliminary to the even break. Blome's attitude was that of a
trapped wolf about to start into savage action; nevertheless, equally it
was the pitifully weak stand of a ruffian against ruthle