an and back
again, questioningly, expectantly. For in the hearts of the men who had
been talking until now there had been no thought of discord; they had
spoken without rancor. But hostility, cold, premeditated, had been in the
new man's speech.

Randerson moved his head slightly, and he was looking straight into
Kelso's eyes. Kelso had moved a little; he was now sitting on his saddle,
having shifted his position when Blair had begun to talk, and the thumb
of his right hand was hooked in his cartridge belt just above the holster
of his pistol.

Randerson's face was expressionless. Only his eyes, squinted a little,
with a queer, hard glint in them, revealed any emotion that might have
affected him over Kelso's words.

"Yes, Dorgan," he said gently, "I was mighty lucky."

Kelso's lips curved into a slow, contemptuous smile.

"I reckon you've always been lucky," he said.

"Meanin'?"

"Meanin' that you've fell into a soft place here, that you ain't fit to
fill!"

Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man of
the outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance--whether
real or imaginary, it made little difference--and that he was determined
to force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state of
affairs, knew that the reference to Randerson's inefficiency was a mere
pretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed by
Dorgan's word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaiting
Randerson's reply.

They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson's way to force
trouble--that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. But
could he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant to
try, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips.

"I reckon you're plumb excited--Owen wakin' you up out of your sleep like
he did," said Randerson. "But," he added, the smile chilling a little, "I
ain't askin' no man to work for me, if he ain't satisfied. You can draw
your time tomorrow, if it don't suit you here."

"I'm drawin' it now!" sneered the gunman. "I ain't workin' for no
pussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin' around the
country with a girl, makin' believe he's bossin', when--" Here he added
something that made the outfit gasp and stiffen.

As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to his
gun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of the
movement he shouted a warning:

"L