ven't you, Murray?"

"From your point of view, of course. But, McCloud, this is a small
country for two points of view. Do you want to get out of it, or do
you want me to?"

"The country suits me, Sinclair."

"No man that has ever played me dirt can stay here while I stay."
Sinclair, with a hand on the portiere, was moving from the doorway
into the room. McCloud in a leisurely way rose, though with a slightly
flushed face, and at that juncture Marion ran into the room and spoke
abruptly. "Here is the silk, Mr. Sinclair," she exclaimed, handing to
him a package she had not finished wrapping. "I meant you to wait in
the other room."

"It was an accidental intrusion," returned Sinclair, maintaining his
irony. "I have apologized, and Mr. McCloud and I understand one
another better than ever."

"Please say to Miss Dunning," continued Marion, nervous and insistent,
"that the band for her riding-hat hasn't come yet, but it should be
here to-morrow."

As she spoke McCloud leaned across the table, resolved to take
advantage of the opening, if it cost him his life. "And by the way,
Mr. Sinclair, Miss Dunning wished me to say to you that the lovely bay
colt you sent her had sprung his shoulder badly, the hind shoulder, I
think, but they are doing everything possible for it and they think it
will make a great horse."

Sinclair's snort at the information was a marvel of indecision. Was he
being made fun of? Should he draw and end it? But Marion faced him
resolutely as he stood, and talking in the most business-like way she
backed him out of the room and to the shop door. Balked of his
opportunity, he retreated stubbornly but with the utmost politeness,
and left with a grin, lashing his tail, so to speak.

Coming back, Marion tried to hide her uneasiness under even tones to
McCloud. "I'm sorry he disturbed you. I was attending to a customer
and had to ask him to wait a moment."

"Don't apologize for having a customer."

"He lives over beyond the Stone Ranch, you know, and is taking some
things out for the Dunnings to-day. He likes an excuse to come in here
because it annoys me. Finish your dinner, Mr. McCloud."

"Thank you, I'm done."

"But you haven't eaten anything. Isn't your steak right?"

"It's fine, but that man--well, you know how I like him and how he
likes me. I'll content myself with digesting my temper."

CHAPTER VIII

SMOKY CREEK BRIDGE

It was not alone that a defiance makes a bad dinner sau