pon the stray-man, beyond bringing a queer twitch into the corners of
his mouth. He smiled at Stafford.

"Anything new?" questioned the latter, as he had questioned Leviatt.

"Nothin' doin'," returned Ferguson.

Leviatt now turned from the window. He spoke to Stafford, sneering.
"Ben Radford's quite a piece away from where he's hangin' out," he
said. He again turned to the window.

Ferguson's lips smiled, but his eyes narrowed. Stafford stiffened in
his chair. He watched the stray-man's hands furtively, fearing the
outcome of this meeting. But Ferguson's hands were nowhere near his
guns. They were folded over his chest--lightly--the fingers of his
right hand caressing his chin.

"You ridin' up the crick to-day?" he questioned of Leviatt. His tone
was mild, yet there was a peculiar quality in it that hinted at
hardness.

"No," answered Leviatt, without turning.

Ferguson began rolling a cigarette. When he had done this he lighted
it and puffed slowly. "Well, now," he said, "that's mighty peculiar.
I'd swore that I saw you over in Bear Flat."

Leviatt turned. "You've been pickin' posies too long with Mary
Radford," he sneered.

Ferguson smiled. "Mebbe I have," he returned. "There's them that
she'll let pick posies with her, an' them that she won't."

Leviatt's face crimsoned with anger. "I reckon if you hadn't been
monkeyin' around too much with the girl, you'd have run across that
dead Two Diamond cow an' the dogie that she left," he sneered.

Ferguson's lips straightened. "How far off was you standin' when that
cow died?" he drawled.

A curse writhed through Leviatt's lips. "Why, you damned----"

"Don't!" warned Ferguson. He coolly stepped toward Leviatt, holding by
the thongs the leather tobacco pouch from which he had obtained the
tobacco to make his cigarette. When he had approached close to the
range boss he held the pouch up before his eyes.

"I reckon you'd better have a smoke," he said quietly; "they say it's
good for the nerves." He took a long pull at the cigarette. "It's
pretty fair tobacco," he continued. "I found it about ten miles up the
crick, on a ridge above a dry arroyo. I reckon it's your'n. It's got
your initials on it."

The eyes of the two men met in a silent battle. Leviatt's were the
first to waver. Then he reached out and took the pouch. "It's mine,"
he said shortly. Again he looked straight at Ferguson, his eyes
carrying a silent message.

"You see