caught a gleam of sparkling amusement in Lonesome Pete's eyes from
across the table. "And maybe after you tell me who you are I might
answer you."

"Me!" thundered the big man, lurching one step nearer, his under jaw
thrust still farther out. "Me! I'm Brayley, that's who I am! An' I'm
the foreman of this here outfit."

"Thank you, Brayley." Conniston's anger was pounding in his temples,
but he strove to keep it back. "I'm Conniston. I was told to report
here by Mr. Crawford to go to work in the morning. I suppose I report
to you?"

"Conniston are you, huh? All right, Conniston. Now who happened to
tell you to slap yourself down in that there chair, huh?"

"Nobody," returned Conniston, calmly. "I didn't suppose that I was to
stand up and eat."

Lonesome Pete's grin overran his eyes, and the ends of his fiery
mustache curved upward. Two or three men laughed outright. Brayley's
brows twitched into a scowling frown.

"Nobody's askin' you to git funny, little rooster! You git out 'n that
chair an' git out 'n it fas'. _Sabe?_"

Calm-blooded by nature and by long habit, Conniston had mastered the
flood of blood to his brain and grown perfectly cool. Brayley, on the
other hand, had come in in a seething rage from a tussle with a colt
in which his stirrup leather had broken and he had rolled in the dust