outstretched, toward the door behind which he heard men talking. As he
moved forward his stomach muscles tightened. At any moment some one might
come out of the room and walk into him.

He put his eye to the keyhole, and through it saw a narrow segment of the
room. Ad Miller was sitting a-straddle a chair, his elbows on the back.
Another man, one not visible to the cowpuncher, was announcing a decision
and giving an order.

"Hook up the horses, Shorty. He's got his neck bowed and he won't sign.
All right. I'll get the durn fool up in the hills and show him whether he
will or won't."

"I could 'a' told you he had sand in his craw." Shorty was speaking. He
too was beyond the range of Dave's vision. "Em Crawford won't sign unless
he's a mind to."

"Take my advice, Brad. Collect the kid, an' you'll sure have Em hogtied.
He sets the world an' all by her. Y'betcha he'll talk turkey then,"
predicted Miller.

"Are we fightin' kids?" the squat puncher wanted to know.

"Did I ask your advice, Shorty?" inquired Steelman acidly.

The range-rider grumbled an indistinct answer. Dave did not make out the
words, and his interest in the conversation abruptly ceased.

For from upstairs there came the sudden sounds of trampling feet, of
bodies thrashing to and fro in conflict. A revolver shot barked its