es, and the gestures that were being made, here was a quarrel
building rapidly into a fight. To prove it the smallest person in the
group suddenly whipped out a revolver and pointed it at the two. Casey saw
the reddening sunlight strike upon the barrel with a brief shine,
instantly quenched when the gun was thrust forward toward the other two
whom it threatened.

"You get out of my camp and out of my sight just as fast as your legs can
take you. This car belongs to me, and you're not going to touch it. You've
got your wages--more than your wages, you great hulking shirks! A fine
exhibition you're making of yourselves, I must say! You thought you could
bluff me--that I'd stand meekly by and let you two bullies have your own
way about it, did you? You even waited until you had gorged yourselves on
food you've never earned, before you started your highwaymen performance.
You made sure of one more good meal, you--you _hogs._ Now go, before I
empty this gun into the two of you!"

Casey stopped, puffing a little, I suppose. He is not so young as when
they called him the Fightin' Stagedriver, and he had done his long day of
travel. The three did not know that he was there, they were so busy with
their quarrel. The woman's voice was sharp with contempt, but it was not
loud and there was not a tremble in any tone of it. The gun she held was
steady in her hand, but one man snarled at her and one man laughed. It was
the kind of laugh a woman would hate to hear from a man she was defying.

"Aw, puddown the popgun! Nobody's scared of it--er you. It ain't loaded,
and if it was loaded you couldn't hit nothin'. No need to be scared
'long's a woman's pointing a gun at yuh. Crank 'er up, agin, Ole. Don't
worry none about _her._ She can't stop nothin', not even her jawin'. Go
awn, start the damn Lizzie an' let's go."

Ole bent to the cranking, then complained that the switch must be off. His
companion growled that it was nothing of the kind and kept his narrowed
gaze fixed upon the woman.

She spied Casey standing there, a few rods beyond the car. The gun dropped
in her hand so that its aim was no longer direct. The man who faced her
jumped and caught her wrist, and the gun went off, the bullet singing ten
feet above Casey's head.

A little girl with flaxen curls and patched overalls on screamed and
rushed up to the man, gripping him furiously around the legs just above
the knees and trying her little best to shake him. "You leave my