The weak spot in Steelman's leadership was that he was personally not
game. Crawford had a pungent personality. He was dynamic, strong, master
of himself in any emergency. The sheepman's will melted before his
insistence. He dared not face a showdown.

"Oh, well, what's it matter? We can talk things over on the way. Me, I'm
not lookin' for trouble none," he said, his small black eyes moving
restlessly to watch the effect of this on his men.

Bob helped his partner out of the house and into the surrey. The
cattleman took the seat beside Steelman, across his knees the sawed-off
shotgun. He had brought his enemy along for two reasons. One was to
weaken his prestige with his own men. The other was to prevent them
from shooting at the rig as they drove away.

Steelman drove in silence. His heart was filled with surging hatred.
During that ride was born a determination to have nothing less than the
life of his enemy when the time should be ripe.

At the door of his house Crawford dismissed him contemptuously. "Get
out."

The man with the reins spoke softly, venomously, from a dry throat. "One
o' these days you'll crawl on your hands and knees to me for this."

He whipped up the team and rattled away furiously into the night.