Hart's gorge rose. "Tha's Miller," he whispered to his chief. "He's
kickin' Dave now he's down 'cause Dave whaled him good."

Softly the two men padded down the stair treads and moved along the
passage.

"Who's that?" demanded Shorty, thrusting his head into the hall. "Stay
right there or I'll shoot."

"Oh, no, you won't," answered the cattleman evenly. "I'm comin' into that
room to have a settlement. There'll be no shootin'--unless I do it."

His step did not falter. He moved forward, brushed Shorty aside, and
strode into the midst of his enemies.

Dave lay on the floor. His hair was clotted with blood and a thin stream
of it dripped from his head. The men grouped round his body had their
eyes focused on the man who had just pushed his way in. All of them were
armed, but not one of them made a move to attack.

For there is something about a strong man unafraid more potent than a
company of troopers. Such a man was Emerson Crawford now. His life might
be hanging in the balance of his enemies' fears, but he gave no sign
of uncertainty. His steady gray eyes swept the circle, rested on each
worried face, and fastened on Brad Steelman.

The two had been enemies for years, rivals for control of the range and
for leadership in the community. Before that, as young men, they had been
candidates for the hand of the girl that the better one had won. The