sheepman was shrewd and cunning, but he had no such force of character as
Crawford. At the bottom of his heart, though he seethed with hatred, he
quailed before that level gaze. Did his foe have the house surrounded
with his range-riders? Did he mean to make him pay with his life for the
thing he had done?

Steelman laughed uneasily. An option lay before him. He could fight or he
could throw up the hand he had dealt himself from a stacked deck. If he
let his enemy walk away scot free, some day he would probably have to pay
Crawford with interest. His choice was a characteristic one.

"Well, I reckon you've kinda upset my plans, Em. 'Course I was a-coddin'
you. I didn't aim to hurt you none, though I'd 'a' liked to have talked
you outa the water-holes."

The big cattleman ignored this absolutely. "Have a team hitched right
away. Shorty will 'tend to that. Bob, tie up yore friend's haid with a
handkerchief."

Without an instant's hesitation Hart thrust his revolver back into its
holster. He was willing to trust Crawford to dominate this group of
lawless foes, every one of whom held some deep grudge against him. One
he had sent to the penitentiary. Another he had actually kicked out of
his employ. A third was in his debt for many injuries received. Almost
any of them would have shot him in the back on a dark night, but none
had the cold nerve to meet him in the open. For even in a land which
bred men there were few to match Emerson Crawford.

Shorty looked at Steelman. "I'm waitin', Brad," he said.