arest tree.

He spat again and looked me up and down. "You know, you can go to
hell, Joe Doolin. You're a lousy, God damn, white-livered son of a
bitch." He grinned coldly.

Not an insult, I knew now, but a deliberate taunt. I'd broken jaws for
a lot less--I'm no runt, and I'm quick enough to hand back crap if
some lands on me. But now I wasn't interested.

He saw I was mad, though, and stood waiting.

"You're fast enough, Buck," I said, "so I got no idea of trying you.
You want to murder me, I guess I can't stop you--but I ain't drawing.
No, sir, that's for sure."

"And a coward to boot," he jeered.

"Maybe," I said. "Put yourself in my place, and ask yourself why in
hell I should kill myself?"

"Yellow!" he snarled, looking at me with his bulging eyes full of
meanness and confidence.

My shoulders got tight, and it ran down along my gun arm. I never took
that from a man before.

"I won't draw," I said. "Reckon I'll move on instead, if you'll let
me."

And I picked up my reins, moving my hands real careful-like, and
turned my horse around and started down the slope. I could feel his
eyes on me, and I was half-waiting for a bullet in the back. But it
didn't come. Instead Buck Tarrant called, "Doolin!"

I turned my head. "Yeah?"

He was standing there in the same position. Somehow he reminded me of
a crazy, runt wolf--his eyes were almost yellowish, and when he talked
he moved his lips too much, mouthing his words, and his big crooked
teeth flashed in the sun. I guess all the hankering for toughness in
him was coming out--he was acting now like he'd always wanted
to--cocky, unafraid, mean--because now he wore a bigger gun than
anybody. It showed all over him, like poison coming out of his skin.

"Doolin," he called. "I'll be in town around three this afternoon.
Tell Ben Randolph for me that he's a son of a bitch. Tell him he's a
dunghead sheriff. Tell him he'd better look me up when I get there, or
else get outa town and stay out. You got that?"

"I got it, Buck."

"Call me Mr. Tarrant, you Irish bastard."

"Okay ... Mr. Tarrant," I said, and reached the bottom of the slope
and turned my horse along the road through the Pass. About a hundred
yards farther on, I hipped around in the saddle and looked back. He
was practising again--the crouch, the fantastic draw, the shot.

I rode on toward town, to tell Ben Randolph he'd either have to run or
die.

* * * * *

Ben w