the big man, slowly. Without the least
hesitation, he advanced and laid a hand upon the other man's shoulder,
facing him at arm's length and speaking deliberately.

"It isn't that I'm afraid of you, either, Bert Clayton; you know
it. You say you love her; I believe you. I love her, too. And
Elizabeth--you have tried, and I have tried--and she told us both
the same.

"God, man! I know how you feel. I've expected something like this a
long time." He drew his hand across his eyes, and turned away. "I've
had murder in my heart when I saw you, and hated myself. It's only in
such places as this, where nothing happens to divert one's mind, that
people get like you and me, Bert. We brood and brood, and it's love
and insanity and a good deal of the animal mixed. Yes, you're right.
It's between you and me, Bert,--but not to fight. One of us has got to
leave--"

"It won't be me," Clayton quickly broke in. "I tell ye, I'd rather
die, than leave."

For a full minute Ellis steadily returned the other man's fiery look,
then went on as though there had been no interruption:

"--and the sooner we go the better. How do you want to settle
it--shall we draw straws?"

"No, we'll not draw straws. Go ef you're afraid; but I won't stir a
step. I came to warn ye, or to fight ye if y' wanted. Seein' y'
won't--good-night."

Ellis stepped quickly in front of the door, and with the motion
Clayton's hand went to his knife.

"Sit down, man," demanded Ellis, sternly. "We're not savages. Let's
settle this matter in civilized fashion."

They confronted each other for a moment, the muscles of Clayton's face
twitching an accompaniment to the nervous fingering of the buckhorn
hilt; then he stepped up until they could have touched.

"What d' y' mean anyway?" he blazed. "Get out o' my road."

Ellis leaned against the door-bar without a word. The fire had burned
down, and in the shadow his face had again the same expression of
heaviness. The breathing of Clayton, swift and short, like one who
struggles physically, painfully intensified the silence of that dimly
lighted, log-bound room.

With his right hand Clayton drew his knife; he laid his left on the
broad half-circle of wood that answered as a door handle.

"Open that door," he demanded huskily, "or by God, I'll stab ye!"

In the half-light the men faced each other, so near their breaths
mingled. Twice Clayton tried to strike. The eyes of the other man held
him powerless, and to save hi