it
handsomely, too, while you're about it."

"Rafe," protested Jim Duff, "you, know that I said what I did only
because I was angry. I know you're a gentleman, and you know that I know
it. If I've hurt your feelings, I'm sorry, a thousand times over."

"Jim, you're a good deal of a sneak, aren't you?" inquired Rafe, in a
voice that sounded pleasant enough, but which carried a warning in its
tone.

"Yes," Duff admitted. "I guess I'm a good deal of a sneak."

"Get up on your feet, then. We understand one another," said Bodson. "Go
ahead, if you want to, and carry out your plans for a merry evening. But
don't make the mistake of calling ugly names again, and don't forget all
you've said about the square deal. Hang these tenderfeet, if that's what
you want to do, but don't hit men without first giving them a chance to
hit back."

Duff, shaking partly from fear, though more from a sense of his
humiliation, rose to his feet. For a moment he stood choking down his
varied emotions. Then, with an attempt at his old-time, suave banter, he
inquired:

"Are you young gentlemen ready for the collar and neck-tie party that
we've planned to give you?"

"As ready as you are," observed Tom dryly.

"And you?" asked Duff, turning to Hazelton. "Are you ready?"

"I'm not particular about feeling a lariat around my neck," Harry
answered, "but I'll follow my friend Reade anywhere--even where you
propose to send us."

"Ay, but that's courage of the kind you don't expect to find in a blamed
tenderfoot!" remarked Jeff Moore, resting a hand first on Tom's shoulder
and then on Harry's.

"Why?" asked Tom. "Does it surprise you?"

"It shore does," replied Jeff.

"Is courage a matter of geography, then?" Tom inquired.

"I--I--pardner, you've got me there," Jeff admitted, looking puzzled.
"Yet, somehow, I never looked for much courage in a fellow who hailed
from east of the Mississippi."

George Ashby had been looking on during the last few moments, his eyes
glittering strangely. Yet, as he said nothing, the attention of the
others had turned from him.

Jeff Moore happened to turn just in time to see the muzzle of the
shotgun turned fully on Tom Reade's waist line, and Ashby's forefinger
resting on one of the triggers.

Bang! spoke the gun, a sheet of flame leaped forth.

Tom Reade did not even start. All his nerve had come to the surface in
that instant. He was unharmed, for Jeff's sweeping arm had knocked aside
the muzzle of