face and upon the crumpled white of his
shirt-bosom. His eyes were mildly surprised as they rested upon Kent.
They were only smiling as they returned to Conniston.

"I was looking for Mr. Conniston, the superintendent," he said, in a
soft, fat voice. "Can you direct me--"

"I am Conniston. And I am in a very big hurry. What can I do for you?"

The man in the buggy swelled pompously.

"I am Oliver Swinnerton," he said, with dignity. And then suffering
what he might have been pleased to consider austerity to melt under a
soft, fat smile, "Glad to know you, Conniston. Shake!"

He put out a soft, fat hand. Conniston stared at him in amazement.

"Swinnerton!" he cried, sharply. "Oliver Swinnerton! And what in the
world do you want with me?"

When it was obvious that Conniston was not going to lean forward in
the saddle to take his hand Mr. Swinnerton withdrew it to mop his
moist forehead.

"Oliver Swinnerton," he repeated, nodding pleasantly. "And I wanted to
talk with you about"--his left eyelid, red and puffy, drooped, and his
right eye squinted craftily--"about reclamation."

"I can't imagine what common interests you and I have in reclamation.
And I am in a hurry."

Oliver Swinnerton chuckled as at a rare jest.

"How do, Kent?" was what he said, having seen Jimmie Kent, it would
seem, for the first time. "And what might you be doing in this part of
the country?"

Jimmie Kent's voice was as pleasant as Swinnerton's had been.

"Maybe you remember how you did me up in the matter of the Bolton town
lots, Mr. Swinnerton? Well, I am just sticking around for the fun of
seeing some one do you up."

Mr. Swinnerton's chuckle was softer, oilier than before. He smiled
upon Kent as though the sandy-haired man were in truth the apple of
his eye.

"Always up to your little repartee, ain't you, Jimmie? Well, well! And
now, Mr. Conniston--Jimmie, you'll pardon us?--may I have a word in
private with you?"

"No," Conniston flared out, "you may not! I don't know you, Mr.
Swinnerton, and I don't want to."

Only a something akin to the hurt surprise of a child in voice and
look alike as Swinnerton queried softly:

"No? Pray, why not? What have I done, Mr. Conniston?"

"You have proven yourself a scoundrel!" burst out Conniston, angrily.
"A fair fight in the open is one thing. Such cowardly means as you
take to gain your ends is another. And if you will turn your horses
and drive back off of Crawford territory I'll be