"Him! You remember that fight you got into in that saloon up in Wyoming?
That night you and me was at the cross-roads saloon and you got off your
feed with red-eye?"

The figure on the seat of the buckboard grew taller.

"Do I remember? Aye, and I'll never forget! The one downright bad thing
I've ever done, Hervey. It was the infernal red-eye that made me a crazy
man. You should of let me go back and see how bad he was hurt, Lew!"

"Nope. I was right. Best thing a gent can do after he's dropped his man
is to climb a hoss and feed it leather."

"He didn't have a gun," groaned Jordan heavily. "But I forgot it. The
red-eye got to working on me. I was losing. It was the one rotten yaller
thing I ever done, Lew!"

"I know. And now he's here. He's Red Perris!"

"Red Perris!" breathed Oliver Jordan. "The man Marianne sent for? Why--
why it's like fate, her bringing him right to the ranch!"

Hervey was discreetly silent.

"But," cried Jordan suddenly, and there was a ghost of the old ring in
his voice, "I dropped him once by a crooked play and now I'll drop him
fair and square, if he's here looking for trouble! I don't want your
help, Lew. Mighty fine of you to offer it, but I ain't plumb forgot how
to shoot. I don't want help!"