Alan Howard. He stood a moment on the threshold, his look one
of sheer amazement. He had come looking for Professor James Edward
Longstreet, eminent authority upon certain geological subjects. Had
anyone told him that he would find his man playing stud poker with
Barbee and two Mexicans and Jim Courtot----

'Barbee!' he cried out angrily, coming on swiftly until he stood over
the table. 'What in hell's name do you mean by steering Longstreet
into a mess like this?'

'What do _you_ mean?' retorted Barbee hotly. 'What business is it of
yours?'

'I mean Jim Courtot,' cut in Howard shortly. 'You know better than to
drag any friend of mine into a game with him.'

Courtot appeared calm and unconcerned.

'The bet's made, gents,' he said briefly. 'Coming in, Longstreet?'

Longstreet looked confused. Before he could frame his answer, Howard
made it for him. And he directed it straight to Courtot.

'I haven't had time to tell Mr. Longstreet about all of the undesirable
citizens hereabouts,' he announced steadily. 'No, he's not coming in.'

'I imagine you'll spill an earful when you get going, Alan,' said
Courtot. 'I'd like to listen in on it.'

Straightway the two Mexicans rose and left the table. Barbee, though
he scorned to do so, pushed his chair back a little and kept his eyes
upon the faces of the two men. Longstreet went from confusion to
bewilderment. Howard considered the matter briefly; then, watching Jim
Courtot while he spoke, he said crisply:

'Mr. Longstreet, you should get acquainted a bit before you play cards
out here. Jim Courtot there, who plans to rob you the shortest way, is
a crook, a thief, a dirty liar and a treacherous man-killer. He's
rotten all the way through.'

A man does not fire a fuse without expecting the explosion. On the
instant that Jim Courtot's hand left his pile of coins, Alan Howard's
boots left the floor. The cattleman threw himself forward and across
the table almost with his last word. Courtot came up from his chair, a
short-barrelled revolver in his hand. But, before he was well on his
feet, before the short barrel had made its required brief arc, Howard's
blow landed. With all of his force, with all of the weight of his
body, he struck Jim Courtot square upon the chin. Courtot went over
backwards, spilling out of the chair that crumpled and snapped and
broke to pieces; his gun flew wide across the room. Howard's impetus
carried him on across the tabl