ent to the bottle, beating Joe's by three inches. He did
not particularly want the whisky, but it angered him to hear Mart order
it taken from him. Away back in his mind where reason had gone into
hiding, Casey knew that some great injustice was being done him; that
he, Casey Ryan, was not the man they were calmly taking it for granted
that he was.

With the bottle in his hand he rose and walked unsteadily to his bunk.
He did not like this man they called the boss. He remembered that in
his bunk, under the bedding, he had concealed something that would make
him the equal of them all. He fumbled under the blankets, found what
he sought and with his back turned to the others he slipped the thing
into his sling out of sight.

Mart and Joe were talking together by the table, paying no attention to
Casey, who was groggily making up his mind to crawl into his bunk and
take another sleep. He still meant to have it out with Mart, but he
did not feel like tackling the job just now.

Mart turned to the door and Joe got up to follow him, with a careless
glance over his shoulder at Casey, who was lifting a foot as if it
weighed a great deal, and was groping with it in the air trying to
locate the edge of the lower bunk. Joe laughed, but the laugh died in
his throat, choked off suddenly by what he saw when Mart pulled open
the door.

Casey turned suspiciously at the laugh and the sound of the door
opening. He swung round and steadied himself with his back against the
bunk when he saw Mart and Joe lift their hands and hold them there,
palms outward, a bit higher than their heads. Something in the sight
enraged Casey unreasoningly. A flick of the memory may have carried
him back to the old days in the mining camps when Casey drove stage and
hold-ups were frequent.

"What 'r yuh tryin' to pull on me now?" he bawled, and rushed headlong
toward them, pushing them forcibly out into the open with a collision
of his body against Joe. Outside, a voice harshly commanded him to
throw up his hands--and it was then that Casey Ryan's Irish fighting
blood boiled and bubbled over. Unconsciously he pushed his hat forward
over one eye, drew back his lips in a fighting grin, stepped down off
the low doorsill with a lurch that nearly sent him sprawling and went
weaving belligerently toward a group of five men whose attitude was
anything but conciliatory.

"Casey Ryan! I'm dogged if it ain't Casey!" exclaimed a familiar voice
in the gro