He was a tawny giant, exuding a force and virility and a compelling
magnetism that gripped one instantly. It affected Sanderson; the sight
of the man caused Sanderson's eyes to glow with reluctant admiration.

And yet Sanderson disliked the man; he know instantly that this was
Alva Dale, concerning whom the Drifter had spoken; and the glow died
out of Sanderson's eyes and was replaced by the steady gleam of
premeditated and deliberate hostility.

For an instant there was no word spoken; the glances of the two men
met, crossed, and neither man's eyes wavered.

Then the big man spoke, gruffly, shortly, coldly: "What do you want?"

Sanderson smiled faintly. "You runnin' things here?" he said, slowly.

"Hell!" snarled the other, and stepped forward.

"Because if you are," resumed Sanderson, his voice bringing the big man
to a halt, "you're the man I'm wantin' to do my gassin' to. If you
ain't runnin' things, why, I reckon you ain't in the deal at all."

"Well, I'm runnin' things," sneered the other. "Tell me what you're
wantin' or pull your freight out of here, _pronto_!"

"I'm sure some disturbed over my mistake," grinned Sanderson. "You
couldn't be anybody but Bransford, or you wouldn't shoot off your gab
that reckless. If you're Bransford, I'm apologizin' to you for talkin'
back to you. But if you ain't Bransford, get off your hind legs an'