Had Wright's incomprehensible mention of Diane Sampson been an instinct
of love--of jealousy? Verily, it had pierced into the depths of the
Ranger, probably as no other thrust could have.

"Diane Sampson wouldn't stoop to know a dirty blood-tracker like
you," said Wright hotly. His was not a deliberate intention to rouse
Steele; the man was simply rancorous. "I'll call you right, you cheap
bluffer! You four-flush! You damned interfering conceited Ranger!"

Long before Wright ended his tirade Steele's face had lost the tinge of
color, so foreign to it in moments like this; and the cool shade, the
steady eyes like ice on fire, the ruthless lips had warned me, if they
had not Wright.

"Wright, I'll not take offense, because you seem to be championing your
beautiful cousin," replied Steele in slow speech, biting. "But let me
return your compliment. You're a fine Southerner! Why, you're only a
cheap four-flush--damned bull-headed--_rustler_"

Steele hissed the last word. Then for him--for me--for Hoden--there was
the truth in Wright's working passion-blackened face.

Wright jerked, moved, meant to draw. But how slow! Steele lunged
forward. His long arm swept up.

And Wright staggered backward, knocking table and chairs, to fall hard,
in a half-sitting posture, against the wall.

"Don't draw!" warned Steele.