her hands too, with Alva Dale--a big rough devil of a man with a greedy
eye on the whole country--an' the girl, too, I reckon--if my eyes is
any good. I've seen him look at her--oh, man! If she was any relation
to me I'd climb Dale's frame sure as shootin'!"

There had been more--the Drifter told a complete story. And Sanderson
had assimilated it without letting the other know he had been affected.

Nor had he mentioned to Burroughs--his employer--a word concerning the
real reason for his desire to make a change. Not until he had written
to Bransford, and received a reply, did he acquaint Burroughs with his
decision to leave. As a matter of fact, Sanderson had delayed his
leave-taking for more than a month after receiving Bransford's letter,
being reluctant, now that his opportunity had come, to sever those
relations that, he now realized, had been decidedly pleasant.

"I'm sure next to what's eatin' you," Burroughs told him on the day
Sanderson asked for his "time." "You're yearnin' for a change. It's a
thing that gets hold of a man's soul--if he's got one. They ain't no
fightin' it. I'm sure appreciatin' what you've done for me, an' if you
decide to come back any time, you'll find me a-welcomin' you with open
arms, as the sayin' is. You've got a bunch of coin comin'--three
thousand. I'm addin' a thousand to that--makin' her good measure.
That'll help you to start something."

Sanderson started northeastward without any illusions. A product of
the Far Southwest, where the ability to live depended upon those
natural, protective instincts and impulses which civilization frowns
upon, Sanderson was grimly confident of his accomplishments--which were
to draw a gun as quickly as any other man had ever drawn one, to shoot