holding had been dehorned but not seared. The blood had run down the
brute's white face and formed a crimson icicle on its under lip. John
had run his fingers through his ashen hair, leaving it blood-smeared.
Charleton was lighting a blood-stained cigarette with the hot
searing-iron. Judith pounded her half-frozen ringers together.

"What price did I pay?" asked Scott.

"Doug," commanded John, "you tell your story."

Douglas, with considerable embarrassment and assisted by Judith, told of
their trip with the mail stage. Scott listened with little apparent
interest. He said nothing when the story was done.

"It's like this, Scott," said John. "It looks like you killed him. You've
got a bad temper. So had Oscar. You fought for over a year about that
fool bull, first one of you branding it, then the other. You're young
and you'd better give yourself up. You'll stand a better chance."

"Go ahead, Scott!" cried Judith. "I'll stand your friend like you did
mine when I rode old Oscar's milch cow 'most to death!"

"Shut up, Jude!" exclaimed Douglas.

"Go ahead, Scott," John half smiled. "You needn't worry. You have a
friend!"

"A friend won't do him much good, if he's guilty," grunted Charleton
Falkner.