or more idlers back to camp.

"Get out, boys," he ordered. "The sheriff will be here pretty quick
now, and I don't want any row. Get out of sight."

"And leave them to fight her out alone? Guess not!" grumbled a
tall, burly individual with a red face.

Orde immediately walked directly to this man.

"Am I bossing this drive, or am I not?" he demanded.

The riverman growled something.

SMACK! SMACK! sounded Orde's fists. The man, taken by surprise,
went down in a heap, but immediately rebounded to his feet as though
made of rubber. But Orde had seized a peavy, and stood over against
his antagonist, the murderous weapon upraised.

"Lie down, you hound, or I'll brain you!" he roared at the top
strength of his great voice. "Want fight, do you? Well, you won't
have to wait till the sheriff gets here! You make a move!"

For a full half minute the man crouched breathless, and Orde, his
ruddy face congested, held his threatening attitude. Then he
dropped his peavy and stepped aside.

"March!" he commanded. "Get your turkey and hit the hay trail.
You'll get your time at Redding."