runnin' on him considerable, Dug."

"I ain't askin' for excuses. I'm tellin' you boys what's what," retorted
the road boss. "Sanders, give him his gun."

The cowpuncher took a step backward. He had no intention of handing a
loaded gun to Miller while the gambler was in his present frame of mind.
That might be equivalent to suicide. He broke the revolver, turned the
cylinder, and shook out the cartridges. The empty weapon he tossed on the
ground.

"He ripped me with his spurs," Miller said sullenly. "That's howcome I
had to turn him loose."

Dave looked down at the man's legs. His trousers were torn to shreds.
Blood trickled down the lacerated calves where the spurs had roweled the
flesh cruelly. No wonder Miller had suddenly lost interest in the fight.
The vaquero thanked his lucky stars that he had not taken off his spurs
and left them with the saddle.

The first thing that Dave did was to strike straight for the wagon where
his roll of bedding was. He untied the rope, flung open the blankets, and
took from inside the forty-five he carried to shoot rattlesnakes. This he
shoved down between his shirt and trousers where it would be handy for
use in case of need. His roll he brought back with him as a justification
for the trip to the wagon. He had no intention of starting anything.
All he wanted was not to be caught at a disadvantage a second time.

Miller and the two Dobles were standing a little way apart talking
together in low tones. The fat man, his foot on the spoke of a wagon