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For a dead man, Dave Denver exhibited singular symptoms. He lay on his bed at D Slash, a row of pillows propped to either side. His head was encased in an enormous ball of bandages that ran from crown to chest and exposed only a bruised nose, a cut mouth, and a pair of rebellious eyes. One of his arms was splinted all the way down, and nothing showed but the tips of his fingers; and at present he twiddled them one at a time, meanwhile muttering something about Sweet Adeline in a cracked voice. This was an innovation; he hadn't tried it during the preceding two days, but a man flat on his back will try anything once. Sometimes the results are gratifying. In this instance it brought Lyle Bonnet into the room on a dead run.

"What's the matter, Dave?"

Denver didn't turn his head. He couldn't turn his head. But he broke off singing. "Nothing! Why all the lather?"

"Great guns!" snorted Bonnet. "I heard yuh a-groanin' and a- sobbin' and I thought yuh had a spasm."

"I was singing. No law against it."

"No-o," reflected Bonnet. "That is, not for actual bona-fide singin'. Was I you, I believe I'd whistle instead."

"Oh, all right," muttered Dave fretfully. "I just wanted to see if my chest was in order. I guess it is. See them fingers? I can move 'em. Nothin' busted down there. Wish Doc would come. I want to get the verdict on this left arm. I wish I could get up and move my legs."

"No, cut that out. Ain't I had grief enough without arguin' with yuh? You got yore orders."

"Huh, I got no more say-so around this dump than a dish washer," opined Denver. "Lyle, ever reflect on the wonders of nature? No? Well, you ought. Improve your education. I have. See that fly on the bedpost? That's Oscar. I reckon you've always held the common misguided opinion that flies are hostile insects, ain't you? Dead wrong, Lyle. Oscar loves me. If he's kissed me once he's kissed me fifty times. And I suppose you hold that flies are unclean animals? Ain't right. Oscar washes ever' fifteen minutes. How do I know? Well, he takes a seat on my nose to do his laundry. Regular ceremony about it. First he lifts his left laig and bats himself on the nose. Then he makes a swipe at his ears with the other laig—"

"Flies ain't got ears," remarked Bonnet glumly.

"Didn't I tell you folks was all haywire about flies? Biggest ears you ever saw. When he sleeps he covers his eyes with 'em. He turns himself around like a dog. On my nose, see? Two-three times. Then he squats and drops anchor. After which he lops his ears down. He's got a lullaby song, too. Kinda pretty in a flyish way—"

"Quit movin' yore head."

Denver groaned. "Some day I'm just naturally goin' to tie the can to you, Lyle."

"I wish to Gawd yuh would," muttered Bonnet. "If I take much more punishment I'll go batty. Ever since we pulled that fake burial day before yesterday your friends have been droppin' in to give me fits. Seems like everybody wanted to see yuh dead—well, I mean they sorter wanted to say so-long before we covered the coffin. I been told I had ought to of laid you out like Exhibit A. I been told I should 'a' took you to Sundown's cemetery. Steve Steers was so hog-wild when he come that I figgered he was agoin' to shoot. It's a good thing I got Doc to back me up, or I'd be accused of buryin' yuh alive."

"What's Doc tell 'em?"

"Tells 'em that if folks can't keep fresh beef from spoilin' in this weather what do they expect of a defunct human being?"

"A good answer," mused Denver, "but not nice."

"And here's another item," went on Bonnet. "I may be a hard nut, but I can't stand by and listen to any more women cryin'—like Eve did. Dave, I tell you I almost broke down and told her the truth."

Denver raised his good arm. "I know—I know. I was just as bad off, lyin' here and hearin' her out there. That's something I'm going' to carry on my conscience a long time. I don't know if she ever will forgive me when she finds out. Maybe I didn't have any business keepin' her out of the secret. It was cold blooded. But it seemed to me then—and it does now—that there is no way of getting Lou Redmain in a trap without throwin' him off completely. If he knows he's put Leverage out of the way and me out of the way he'll be apt to take longer chances. That's just what I want. And he won't be spyin' around D Slash to see what I'm up to. I had to make the idea of my being dead sound truthful. Redmain's no man's fool. Supposin' he had run into Eve right afterward. Or supposin' he's got spies around the Leverage place, as he probably has. If she seems unconcerned about me he'll get suspicious right away. No, I had to take the hard way, and may the Lord forgive me for doin' it."

"You going to tell Steve?"

"Not today or tomorrow. If he's gone hog-wild, then that's the best advertisement of my kickin' the bucket I could want. I'm not worryin' over him. He can stand the gaff."

"How about Lola Monterey?"

There was so long a silence that Bonnet figured Denver hadn't heard. Denver was staring blackly at the ceiling. After a while he spoke, never answering the question—and Bonnet knew he was not to mention the girl's name again. "Do you think we fooled Hominy Hogg and the Steele bunch?"

"I'd say so," said Bonnet. "You got to figure that when all those shots turned our attention toward Tom's Hole and we found yuh lyin' in that mess of rocks, you was in no pretty shape. Of course, yuh talked, but it wasn't no great shakes. So when we got here and put yuh in the bedroom I think the Steele bunch considered it a toss-up. Anyhow, when I walked out on the porch and said yuh was gone, they rode home with a good imitation of bein' sunk."

"To tell you the truth," revealed Denver, "I got the idea of playing dead the minute I shook the fog out of my head and found I was still kickin'. I wasn't hurt as much as I gave indications of bein' in front of the bunch. I trust almost all of the Steele bunch, but there's a chance some one of them might be playing double. So I thought it best to carry out the idea. Therefore there's nobody but my own crew who knows I'm alive. And we'll keep it that way until I get wind of Redmain and have a chance of running him down. Did you do what I told you?"

"About the men? Yeah. I explained the situation. Chester Mack, Limerick Lane, and Gallup decided to play the part of havin' quit the ranch. They're to hit Sundown and indicate the ranch is breakin' up. Mack's to stay in town and keep his ears wide open. I told Limerick to ride around the hills like he was lookin' for work. Gallup is to get himself a pack horse and strike out on a prospectin' trip—keepin' to the upper Copperhead. So that covers that. What next?"

"You can't hang around the ranch too much, Lyle. There might be renegades spyin' on us."

Bonnet frowned. "There is—or was. Lee was pokin' around the east trees a little while ago and found where a fellow had beaten down the grass and brush. Apparently watchin' the house. Considerin' yore helpless I wasn't going to say anything about it."

Denver thought about this for a period. "Redmain may be nearby. Only one way to be sure. You start out in the morning as if to round up the stock. Beat the country pretty well. Better yet—send out some men tonight with cold grub. Put 'em where they'll cover the trails. Same system we tried before. It worked then, and it'll work now."

"That all?"

"Ahuh. Get out of here. Oscar's losin' his patience. Can't you see him fiddlin' around?" But Bonnet had hardly departed when Doc Williamson arrived. He cast a professional glance at Denver. "Suppose you've been threshin' around the bed and cussin' everybody. Your kind always does."

"If I ever get out of here I'll never look at that ceilin' again. Going to paint it full of faces, so I can talk to 'em. Put your face in the middle and give you the devil. Meet Oscar."

"Crazy as a loon," remarked Doc Williamson and threw back the covers. "Now if this don't hurt, tell me. Otherwise keep still."

"It's a good thing you've got Pete Atkins to take care of up here, too," reflected Denver, "or I don't know how you'd manage to keep up the story of me bein' dead. Yeah, that's my foot, all right. No doubt about it."

"Think you're wise?" countered Williamson. "Givin' grief to a lot of good people—and some in particular?"

"I reckon I'll pay for it later. It's a hard game, Doc, but I've got to play it out."

"Somebody's got to play it out," agreed the Doc, "or this county will be worse than when the Indians skulked through it. Now, I'm going to get a little rough."

"What do you call what you been doin' so far?" Denver wanted to know. He closed his eyes while Williamson lifted one foot and another, turning the ankles, bending the knees, all the while his sharp eyes probing Denver's face for pain. In ten minutes or so he had worked up as far as the splinted arm; taking off the bandages he continued his search, fingers gently insistent. Then he was done; and he leaned back, eyes lighting. "Well, after bouncing off every rock in Tom's Hole I still can't find any bones busted. What'd you want a doctor for? Legs are sound, ribs seem satisfactory, that arm's got a few pulled tendons, but nothing more."

Denver considered he did very well in suppressing his wild emotion of pleasure. "How about my head?"

"You got a gash in it big enough to drive a span of mules through, right over the left ear. I washed so much grit out of it the other day I thought I was prospectin'. What difference does it make? Nobody in Yellow Hill uses a head often enough to count, anyhow."

"So I can get up, uh?"

"Who said so?" grunted Doc, juggling some vile-looking pills into a glass of water.

"Well, if I'm not hurt—"

Williamson clucked his tongue in disgust. "Listen, Dave, if you were a horse I'd shoot you for bein' absolutely no good for further service. But since you're a Denver—the blackest and toughest breed of mortal fools I ever knew—I'll say you stick on your back for a week. Then you can do what you please. You will anyhow, so I might as well say it. Drink this, and don't bellyache."

Denver obeyed, shuddering as he waved the empty glass away. "You'll make me sick yet. But, listen, you cut that week down to about three-four days, Doc. As a personal favor to me."

"I'm not God," said Williamson, closing his bag. "But I'll drop around tomorrow and see if some packs and some massagin' won't work a little of the bruise out of you. Now, get some sleep."

"Sleep—I'm so full of sleep I'd float," grumbled Denver fretfully. "Go on away and leave me alone."

Williamson paused in the doorway. "Well," he mused, "I'm glad it wasn't worse." That was his only display of sentiment, his only admission of the deep concern he had felt for a man he loved. Closing the door quietly, he went out to treat Pete Atkins, who had taken a bullet through his leg in the fight.

Denver stared at the ceiling, calculating his condition. A week was a long time to be helpless while Lou Redmain raced through the hills. If the renegade would just play 'possum for a while, it would be all right. But the thought was not worth entertaining. He knew Redmain. The man was a furnace of tempers. He had tasted blood, and like all killers, low or high, he would be lusting for more. Redmain had boasted on that night in the Wells—it seemed months back—that the sky was his limit. He wouldn't know enough to stop, and there was no audacious scheme he would turn away from.

The fly, or one of its innumerable cousins, made a graceful loop through the air and came to rest on Denver's nose. Denver blew him away abstractedly. Then he lifted his sound right arm and considered it. He had the means of defense left him. Or attack either. One arm was better than no arm. And the right arm was a little better than the left one, though he had been trained from childhood to shoot with either. He waved it across from one side to another, feeling the stiff and aching resistance of his chest muscles. Changing tactics, he operated the member up and down—and woke more muscles to discomfort. There seemed to be no single square inch of his body free from hurt.

"Must of lit on all four sides at once," he gloomed. "I recall Dann pluggin' my horse. I recall goin' down that slope like somebody that'd been sent for in a hurry. I bounced. Yeah, I sure did bounce. Anyhow, I faded to the sound of music and shootin'. I bet Dann would have stood on top of the ridge and made a target out of me all day long if the boys hadn't heard the ruction from the trees and come along. I must have been within hailin' distance of them that morning when I went into Tom's Hole. There's another item Redmain had figured down to the seventh decimal. He had it doped we'd come struggling out of the brush and take the shortest road home. And so he planted himself. No, by George, a week is too long. He'll be started on a campaign of ruin before I'm up."

The renegade had uncanny perceptions of attack and defense. Denver was candid enough to admit his own mind didn't move as fast as Redmain's. Redmain was like a sharp sword, flashing in and out while he, Dave Denver, was as slow moving as a bludgeon. He didn't have the dash, the flair; he could only do as he always had done: beat doggedly ahead, take punishment, and keep going for the knockout blow. There was that difference between them; and the fight would be so waged. Until one of them got in the killing blow. No other end than that. A kill.

The fly made another landing. Denver looked cross-eyed at the insect. "Oscar, I'm gettin' disgusted at you. Go play with your own friends." And he made a swipe at his nose that flexed all the mass of jangling ligaments in his body. He relaxed groaning.

Patience was not one of his virtues, and when Lyle Bonnet brought in supper he was morose and irritable. "Roll me about five hundred cigarettes, Lyle, and pile 'em on the table. I've tried to do it one-handed and wasted three sacks of heifer dust."

"Want me to spoon this nutriment into yuh?"

"No," rasped Denver, "I'll spill my own soup on my own chin."

Bonnet chuckled. "What big teeth yuh got, Grammaw. Well, I'll go eat and set half the crew to rollin' the aforesaid cigareets. There just ain't nothin' we ain't bright enough to do in this outfit."

"Go 'way and let me think."

Bonnet caught that one neatly. He raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Well, that'll be something different, anyhow." Grinning broadly, he departed.

When, an hour later, he returned, Denver lay silent on the bed. So Bonnet put the cigarettes in a row, laid out a bunch of matches, turned down the lamp, and tiptoed away with the dishes. Denver, who only had his eyes closed, heard all this; and through his morose discontent he felt a warm glow of affection. Bonnet was as tough and devil-may-care as they made them; but he was a man. In the middle of the night when he drowsed he faintly heard the latch click and somebody come in for a moment.

Next morning he was cheerful for a little while. Bonnet arrived to say he had sent out four of the outfit to settle down in convenient locations; he was taking all the rest on the ranch but five, to go out on the fake roundup.

"Why leave five here?"

Bonnet's reply was a little too casual. "Oh, just to hang around."

Denver seized upon the suspicious manner instantly. "Spit it out. You've got something in your coco."

"Shucks," grunted Bonnet and studied his cigarette. "Oh, well. If yuh got to know, I'm leavin' 'em for protection. Redmain done rode his bunch into Leverage's, scared the women, and made his brag generally. Eve—by golly, I hand it to her—took a pot shot at Dann, and Redmain burned a lot of stuff and killed off the saddle stock. That's why."

Denver's body stiffened; the violet of his eyes began to suffuse. Bonnet hurried on. "Doggone it, I knowed it would just make things worse! Cut it out and calm down. No good bustin' an artery. I give orders to the fellas stayin' behind. They camp on the porch until I'm back."

Denver thought it out, mastered his hot rage. "I can see what's smokin up now, Lyle. He'll never be satisfied at just plain revenge. Lord have mercy on the people he chooses to hurt. We've got to get busy. And we've got to have more men. Today you angle over to Steele's. Talk to Hominy. Tell him you're short- handed. Tell him the D Slash estate will stand back of the wages. Argue five men out of him. These five—" and he named them—"I know are absolutely to be trusted. When we get 'em down here we can break the news."

"Good enough. Well, I'll have news by tonight."

"You better have," said Denver. Bonnet went out. Denver waited until he heard the horses being saddled. Then he got into action.

He swept away the bed covers and slowly drew his knees up, working them cautiously. He put his good arm under him, turned half over. He kicked half a dozen pillows to the floor, rolled on his face, and settled his feet to the carpet. And again by the aid of his useful arm he pushed himself straight.

His head throbbed, his knees quivered a little. But he was up, and that was something to write home about. Supporting himself at the bedside, he stared with a thin-lipped triumph at the familiar walls. "Oscar," he grunted, "just take a look at this and tell your children. Maybe I wouldn't pass as a civilized specimen with my shirt tails a-flappin', but I guess a fellow's got a right to wear underclothes in his own bedroom."

He sneezed, rousing a headache. Specks floated around the room and disappeared. He steadied himself, waited for his vision to clear, and decided it was time to do something else. So he put a foot forward and aimed for the dresser. It was not bad at all, excepting for a particular joint in his hip that seemed to bite him at each step. Arriving at the dresser, he peered into the mirror.

"Good God, is that a face?"

Within the cowling of bandages was half a forehead with a sort of cross-hatched pattern of scars, a skinned nose, a pair of puffy Ups, and two red-rimmed, groggy eyes. The eyes rolled owlishly, turned puzzled, turned cold. Denver swung away. "I look like I've been drunk since Lincoln was shot. Now, there's one more important test. If I can sit in that chair without breakin' my back—"

He swerved, making for the bed. The door opened, and Bonnet stepped in with his mouth half open to speak. Denver stopped dead and essayed a smile—a crooked, furtive smile as of a man caught stealing chickens. Bonnet slammed the door behind him and lifted the quirt dangling on his wrist.

"Damn you, Dave Denver," he cried, hard and angry, "get back in that bed! Ain't there a lick of sense in your stubborn head? What the devil do you think Williamson's makin' a long trip out here for every day? Can't nobody tell you nothin'? Get back there! Go on. I've got a ninety per cent notion to tie yuh in."

"All right—all right, I'm goin'," muttered Denver. Getting down was harder work than rising. He made three futile attempts to lift one foot and collapse gradually. Bonnet stood by in stony silence. Denver swore and closed his mind to the inevitable hurt; he swung his good shoulder to the bed and pitched forward, rolling the rest of his body after. Very slowly he clawed the quilts around him. "All right, Simon Legree," said he, panting like an engine, "crack your whip and see if I care."

"Listen, Dave, I want yore promise not to essay that stunt again today. Either that or I don't budge. I'm gettin' all-fired tired of playin' wet nurse, and I ain't goin' to see yuh do anything that'll stretch it out. Do I get the promise?"

"You got it. What'd you come back for, anyhow?"

"Had a blamed good idea what you was up to. Saw the glitter in yore eyes."

"Well, I'll stay quiet today. But I'm a sound man, Lyle. And tomorrow I aim to get on my hoofs again. Williamson's all wrong about this week business. I can't wait a week."

"Why not?"

"I know Redmain too well. Hell's brewin' somewhere. I don't know where, and I don't know how. But I know. There never was a time of trouble in this country that I didn't get the whisper of it. The old feelin'. Somethin' passin' through the air. Medicine drums beatin'. And I'm just enough savage to feel it—hear it. Go on, Lyle. I'll stay in bed today. But when I get well I'm going to burn the cursed thing."

"Lay there, doggone yuh," said Bonnet, and went out.

"Either I fire that buzzard," decided Denver, "or I give him a quarter interest in the ranch."

A steady ache throbbed through his body. He shut his eyes, but that only seemed to bring him nearer the pain; so he opened them again and stared at the ceiling. There was a drifting crack in the plaster that reminded him a little bit of the Copperhead's meandering course. The reverse turn would be about at the lower falls. The first little offshoot was Butte Creek. Weeping Woman fell in just above. But from that point the crack curved the wrong way, and Denver had an impatient desire to get up to the ceiling and correct the error. He closed his eyes again, groaning. "If I ever get off my back I'll sleep on my stomach the rest of my life."

Once he had thought this bedroom to be a pretty nice place. After the dreary hours in it he decided he had never seen a more barren room in all his days; and suddenly it occurred to him his own life was equally barren. What sort of a game had he been playing all these years—and where did it lead? What was he fighting for, why was he building up the ranch? Who cared, other than himself, whether he had a dime or a fortune? Always until now the day and its work had been sufficient. His own energy had carried him along, from the first flush of dawn until dark. Up and away in the saddle, riding the trails, standing over the hot brand fire, full in the brawl of the dusty, bellowing herds. Into town to watch his accounts, to meet with the Association, to drink and joke a while among men of his kind. And home to eat and sleep. That was all the ranch house meant—a place to go to and to depart from. Nothing more.

In such a day there was no time for reflection, no need of long brown thoughts. Nor was he a man given to introspection. His own vitality, his own love of rough life sufficed; the primitive pleasure of feeling the rain slash his cheeks or the sight of the sun exploding riotously into a crimson setting—these things were enough for a pagan. They had filled his day.

Until now. The house was too quiet, too empty. The cook's footfalls echoed too blankly. With a growing uneasiness he reflected that his own career was much the same—full of sounds echoing into blank corners. It surprised him to find he had blank corners. He thought he had done very well by himself. It surprised him to find this strange disquietude running through his body. Actually it was like hunger, a hunger for something he had never had—something he couldn't even place.

His turning thoughts skipped the gap, and he recalled the evenings he now and then spent at Leverage's. Jake Leverage seemed to mellow and take his ease inside the walls of that pleasantly warm and comfortable house. No blank corners there—none whatsoever. And in another abrupt jump Denver saw Eve standing at the door, smiling out of her steady eyes, the fragrance of perfume in her hair faintly crossing the shadowed porch to perplex him. A serene, boyish figure with lurking laughter about her; yet this was the Eve who had taken a gun to fire on Dann. Denver closed his fists and glowered at the ceiling.

"That pack of dogs has got to be wiped off the earth," he muttered. "They might have hurt her. I've been the Lord's worst fool to stand aside all this time and let Redmain get enough power in his hands to be able to do that. Leverage was right. It didn't make any difference to him if there was crooked influences back of the vigilante idea. He was fightin' to keep his women safe. Bein' married, bein' a father made him see that. I didn't. I'm just a half-wild rider, nothin' more. Good God, I wish I was up!"

His head was so tangled with all this thinking that he lost trace of what he was trying to unravel. He closed his eyes, and the extra exertion of the morning put him to sleep.

When he awoke, alert and startled, there was the sound of singing out in the big room. A woman singing. He had no need to guess; only Lola Monterey's voice carried that husky, infinitely sad pitch—only Lola had the power of throwing herself into words until the very air vibrated with her personality. The song was in Spanish, and the melody of it seemed to blend all the ancient wisdom of love and life and tragedy. It swayed hauntingly, fell to a whisper, and rose like a clear call. And suddenly broke off, to leave the silence bleak and tense. Denver lay immovable. A quick step tapped over the big room's floor. She spoke.

"David."

She was at his door, her hand brushing it lightly. Denver watched the knob, suspended between a desire to call and the grim need of being silent. But he never had the opportunity of deciding. Lola cried, "David!" again. The door flew open. She paused, tall and beautiful and supremely moved. Then she threw herself into the room and fell beside him, head on his chest, choking out her words.

"David—I sang to wherever you were! To call you back, my love! And then I knew you were not dead!"

One of the hands appeared in the door and motioned apologetically. "She jest wanted—"

"Get out of here," said Dave. He put his hand on the jet and shining head. Saying nothing for a while, knowing nothing ought to be said. The pound of her heart lessened; the trembling of her body died away, and it was as if she slept, hands tight on his shoulders. He had no idea how long a time passed, for his thoughts traveled the old bitter pathway backward, and he was lost in a memory that was fire and flame, laughter and quarrel—like sunlight flashing intermittently through storm clouds. Then Lola sprang up, tipped her chin; and through the film of tears her eyes were smiling.

"So I live always, David. From hurt to joy. Never even, never serene. Why did you do it—why did you?"

He shook his head. "I can't tell you, Lola. All I say now is that when you go out of this house you've got to carry yourself just the same as when you came in. Not by a single look or thought or word must you be changed. I'm publicly dead—and so I remain until—"

"There is only one reason," said Lola, whose eyes never left his face. "You hope to get Lou Redmain."

He had no reply. Lola spoke swiftly. "Lou is deadly."

"I'm not exactly skimmed milk, Lola. Wasn't there a time when you called me a hard man?"

"I know, but Lou never gave anybody a fair chance in all his life—except me. There's something in him that warps every good impulse. He will tell you he is your friend. He will actually mean to be honest and fair and straight. But after a little while he turns aside. I never realized that until I had thought back from the very beginning of when I'd known him. He tricked you up in the hills, didn't he? Dave, he will do it again. And you'll go straight ahead, as you always do, and—"

"Not with Redmain," grunted Denver. "I fight him as dirty as he fights me. I expect nothin' and I give nothin'."

She was silent a moment. Then: "Does Eve know—"

"Lord forgive me, no! She thinks I'm dead."

Very softly she added a question: "And how about me, David? Did it occur to you I might be hurt too?"

"I reckon I've always hurt you, Lola."

"The light of day," said she in a half whisper, "died out." But she shifted to gayety on the instant. "I must not carry on. Who wants to see Lola Monterey in tears? Only women who are loved can afford to show unhappiness. David, my dear, get well. You are scowling because you can't be on your feet, because you are not the old domineering David Denver."

"Not sure," he mused. "A man does some powerful thinkin', flat on his back. The little round world don't look the same. Maybe I've been a fool. Maybe I've rode alone too long. It's lonely."

"Then there is hope for you," said she, her red lips dimpling at the corners. "And perhaps some hope even for me." Leaning swiftly down she kissed him. "For old times, David. Be good."

"You've got to forget I'm alive," he warned her. "You've got to hide your feelings."

"What have I been an actress for all my life? Isn't that just what I always must do—seem sad when I'm so happy I want to cry out, and seem glad when there's nothing in me but an ache?"

She went out, trailing grace and vivid color. And the room was again four shabby walls.

Doc Williamson, returning in the late afternoon, found his patient locked in gray rebellion.

"You've got to fix me up," said Denver. "What with?" was Williamson's sarcastic rejoinder.

"What do I care? Use dope, or balin' wire, or an ax. But you've got to do it. You're a doctor, ain't you? Then get busy."

"For that," promised Williamson, "I'm going to rub you so hard you'll yell like a dyin' Comanche."

"Go ahead. Try and make me yell."

"Wait'll I get some hot and cold water."

Williamson was just rolling down his cuffs and looking rather more tired than usual when Lyle Bonnet returned. Bonnet grinned.

"Did yuh give him the works, Doc? That sucker bed this mornin' and tried to walk."

"Sure, all lunatics are like that," said Williamson.

"What's the news?" was Denver's impatient interruption.

"The most important item is," reflected Bonnet, "that Steve Steers has posted his intentions of gettin' Dann, and has challenged Dann to meet him any place, at any time."

Denver swore in round, blistering phrases. "That damn idiot! He can't do it—Dann's too fast for him. We've got to stop it. Listen, you race a man over to Nightingale's. Use any excuse to get Steve here. I'll break the news. I didn't want to do it for another couple days, but we've got to haul him around, or he'll get shot cold. Hurry up."