er asked no favours of no State Trooper----"

"He did you a favour, didn't he? He brought your daughter in."

"Yes, 'n' he'd jail us all if he got anything on us."

"Yes; and he'll shoot to kill if any of Quintana's people come here and
try to break in."

Clinch grunted, peeled off his coat and got into a leather vest
bristling with cartridge loops.

Trooper Stormont came into the back door, carrying his rifle.

"Some rough fellow been bothering your little daughter, Clinch?" he
inquired. "The child was nearly all in when she met me out by Owl Marsh
-- clothes half torn off her back, bare-foot and bleeding. She's a
plucky youngster. I'll say so, Clinch. If you think the fellow may
come here to annoy her I'll keep an eye on her till you return."

Clinch went up to Stormont, put his powerful hands on the young fellow's
shoulders.

After a moment's glaring silence: "You _look_ clean. I guess you be,
too. I wanta tell you I'll cut the guts outa any guy that lays the heft
of a single finger onto Eve."

"I'd do so, too, if I were you," said Stormont.

"Would ye? Well, I guess you're a real man, too, even if you're a State
Trooper," growled Clinch. "G'wan up. She's a-nappin'. If she wakes up
you kinda talk pleasant to her. You act pleasant and cozy. She ain't
had no ma. You tell her to set snug and ca'm. Then you cook her an egg
if she wants it. There's pie, too. I cal'late to be back by sundown."

"Nearer morning," remarked Smith.

Stormont shrugged. "I'll stay until you show up, Clinch."

The latter took another rifle from the corner and handed it to Smith
with a loop of ammunition.

"Come on," he grunted.

On the veranda he strode up to the group of sullen, armed men who
regarded his advent in expressionless silence.

Sid Hone was there, and Harvey Chase, and the Hastings boys, and
Cornelius Blommers.

"You fellas comin'?" inquired Clinch.

"Where?" drawled Sid Hone.

"Me an' Hal Smith is cal'kalatin' to drive Star Peak. It ain't a deer,
neither."

There ensued a grim interval. Clinch's wintry smile began to glimmer.

"Booze agents or game protectors? Which?" asked Byron Hastings. "They
both look like deer -- if a man gits mad enough."

Clinch's smile became terrifying. "I shell out five hundred dollars for
every _deer_ that's dropped on Star Peak to-day," he said. "And I hope
there won't be no accidents and no mistakin' no _stranger_ for a deer,"
he added, wagging his gre