as if trying to pull them out of their sockets, and
his companion was displaying himself in like manner, Lambert's gun down
on them, Taterleg coming in deliberately a second or two behind.

"Keep them right there," was the Duke's caution, jerking his head to
Taterleg in the manner of a signal understood.

Taterleg rode up to the fence-cutters and disarmed them, holding his gun
comfortably in their ribs as he worked with swift hand. The rifle he
handed down to the old negro, who was now on his feet, and who took it
with a bow and a grave face across which a gleam of satisfaction
flashed. The holsters with the revolvers in them he passed to the Duke,
who hung them on his saddle-horn.

"Pile off," Taterleg ordered.

They obeyed, wrathful but impotent. Taterleg sat by, chewing gum, calm
and steady as if the thing had been rehearsed a hundred times. The Duke
pointed to the old negro's hat.

"Pick it up," he ordered the younger man; "dust it off and give it to
him."

The fellow did as directed, with evil face, for it hurt his high pride,
just as the Duke intended that it should hurt. Lambert nodded to the man
who had knocked the old fellow down with a blow of his heavy revolver.

"Dust off his clothes," he said.

Vesta Philbrook smiled as she witnessed this swift humbling of her
ancient enemy. The old negro turned himself arrogantly, presenting the
rear of his broad and dusty pantaloons; but the bristling, red-faced
rancher balked. He looked up at Lambert, half choked on the bone of his
rage.

"I'll die before I'll do it!" he declared with a curse.

Lambert beat down the defiant, red-balled glowering eyes with one brief,
straight look. The fence-cutter broke a tip of sage and set to work, the
old man lifting his arms like a strutting gobbler, his head held high,
the pain of his hurt forgotten in the triumphant moment of his revenge.

"Have you got some wire and tools around here handy, Miss Philbrook?"
Lambert inquired. "These men are going to do a little fence fixin' this
morning for a change."

The old negro pranced off to get the required tools, throwing a look
back at the two prisoners now and then, covering his mouth with his hand
to keep back the explosion of his mirth. Badly as he was hurt, his
enjoyment of this unprecedented situation seemed to cure him completely.
His mistress went after him, doubtful of his strength, with nothing but
a quick look into Lambert's eyes as she passed to tell him how deeply