, which, however
unobtrusive, indicates steam within. In fact, John Lefever, who was
built not unlike a kettle, and whose high, shiny forehead was topped
by a pompadour shock of very yellow hair, never whistled except when
there was some pressure on his sensibilities.

The warm sun streaming through the windows of the private office of
the division superintendent at Sleepy Cat, a railroad town lying
almost within gunshot of the great continental divide, would easily
have accounted for the cordial perspiration that illumined Lefever's
forehead. Not that a perspiration is easily achieved in the high
country; it isn't. None, indeed, but a physical giant, which Lefever
was, could maintain so constant and visible a nervous moisture in the
face of the extraordinary atmospheric evaporation of the mountain
plateaus. And to de Spain, on this occasion, even the glistening beads
on his companion's forehead were annoying, for he knew that he himself
was properly responsible for their presence.

De Spain, tilted back in the superintendent's chair, sat near
Lefever--Jeffries had the mountain division then--his elbows resting
on the arms of the revolving-chair, and with his hands he gripped
rather defiantly the spindles supporting them; his feet were crossed
on the walnut rim of the shabby, cloth-topped table. In this attitude
his chin lay on his soft, open collar and tie, his sunburnt lips were
shut tight, and above and between his nervous brown eyes were two
little, vertical furrows of perplexity and regret. He was looking at
the dull-finish barrel of a new rifle, that lay across Lefever's lap.
At intervals Lefever took the rifle up and, whistling softly, examined
with care a fracture of the lever, the broken thumb-piece of which lay
on the table between the two men.

From the Main Street side of the large room came the hooting and
clattering of a Frontier Day celebration, and these noises seemed not
to allay the discomfort apparent on the faces of the two men.

"It certainly is warm," observed Lefever, apropos of nothing at all.

"Why don't you get out of the sun?" suggested de Spain shortly.

Lefever made a face. "I am trying to keep away from that noise."

"Hang it, John," blurted out de Spain peevishly, "what possessed you
to send for _me_ to do the shooting, anyway?"

His companion answered gently--Lefever's patience was noted even among
contained men--"Henry," he remonstrated, "I sent for you because I
thought you cou