swelling his cheeks.

Soapy crushed the irrepressible Yorky with a look, but that young man
hit back smilingly.

"Soapy, he sells soap, ma'am. He's a sorter city salesman, I reckon."

"I should never have guessed it. Mr. Sothern does not LOOK like
a salesman," said the girl, with a glance at his shrewd, hard,
expressionless face.

"Yes, ma'am, he's a first-class seller of soap, is Mr. Sothern,"
chuckled the cow-puncher, kicking his friends gayly under the table.

"You can see I never sold HIM any, Miss Messiter," came back Soapy,
sorrowfully.

All this was Greek to the young lady from Kalamazoo. How was she to know
that Mr. Sothern had vended his soap in small cubes on street corners,
and that he wrapped bank notes of various denominations in the bars,
which same were retailed to eager customers for the small sum of fifty
cents, after a guarantee that the soap was good? His customers rarely
patronized him twice; and frequently they used bad language because
the soap wrapping was not as valuable as they had expected. This was
manifestly unfair, for Mr. Sothern, who made no claims to philanthropy,
often warned them that the soap should be bought on its merits, and not
with an eye single to the premium that might or might not accompany the
package.

"I started to tell you, ma'am, when that infant interrupted, that
the cowmen don't aim to quit business yet a while. They've drawn a
dead-line, Miss Messiter."

"A dead-line?"

"Yes, ma'am, beyond which no sheep herder is to run his bunch."

"And if he does?" the girl asked, open eyed.

"He don't do it twict, ma'am. Why don't you pass the fritters to Miss
Messiter, Slim?"

"And about this Bannister Who is he?"

Her innocent question seemed to ring a bell for silence; seemed to carry
with it some hidden portent that stopped idle conversation as a striking
clock that marks the hour of an execution.

The smile that had been gay grew grim, and men forgot the subject of
their light, casual talk. It was Sothern that answered her, and
she observed that his voice was grave, his face studiously without
expression.

"Mr. Bannister, ma'am, is a sheepman."

"So I understood, but--" Her eyes traveled swiftly round the table, and
appraised the sudden sense of responsibility that had fallen on these
reckless, careless frontiersmen. "I am wondering what else he is.
Really, he seems to be the bogey man of Gimlet Butte."

There was another instant silence, and again it wa