nodded his great, bushy head.

"Bud, you're discharged," said Sampson bluntly. "Now, the rest of you
clear out of here."

He absolutely ignored the Ranger. That was his rebuff to Steele's
advances, his slap in the face to an interfering Ranger Service.

If Sampson was crooked he certainly had magnificent nerve. I almost
decided he was above suspicion. But his nonchalance, his air of
finality, his authoritative assurance--these to my keen and practiced
eyes were in significant contrast to a certain tenseness of line about
his mouth and a slow paling of his olive skin.

He had crossed the path of Vaughn Steele; he had blocked the way of this
Texas Ranger. If he had intelligence and remembered Steele's fame, which
surely he had, then he had some appreciation of what he had undertaken.

In that momentary lull my scrutiny of Sampson gathered an impression of
the man's intense curiosity.

Then Bud Snell, with a cough that broke the silence, shuffled a couple
of steps toward the door.

"Hold on!" called Steele.

It was a bugle-call. It halted Snell as if it had been a bullet. He
seemed to shrink.

"Sampson, I _saw_ Snell attack Hoden," said Steele, his voice still