clanked on the floor. A red spot grew on the breast of Hansen's shirt; now
he leaned as if to pick up something, but instead, slid forward on his
face. Vic stepped to him and stirred the body with his toe; it wobbled,
limp.



Chapter V. The Fight

There were three spots of white in the dim saloon, the faces of Stewart,
Lorrimer, and old Lew Perkins, and at the feet of Vic grew a spot of red.
Knowing with calm surety that no hand would lift against him even if he
turned his back, he walked out the door without a word and swung into the
saddle. There, for an instant, he calculated chances, for the street
stretched empty before and behind with not a sound of warning stirring in
the saloon. He was greatly tempted to ride to Dug Pym's for his blanket
roll and a few other traveling necessities, but he remembered that the men
of Alder rose to action with astonishing speed; within five minutes a group
of hard riders would be clattering up his trail with Pete Glass at their
head. An unlucky Providence had sent Pete to Alder on this day of all days.
There stood his redoubtable dusty roan at the hitching rack, her head low,
one ear back and one flopped forward, her under lip pendulous--in a pasture
full of horses one might pick her last either for stout heart or speed.
Even in spite of her history Vic would have engaged Grey Molly to beat the
roan at equal weights, but since he outbulked the sheriff full forty
pounds, he weighed in nice balance the necessity of shooting the roan
before he left Alder. It was, he decided, unpleasant but vital, and his
fingers had already slid around the butt of his gun when a horse whinnied
far off and the roan twitched up her head to listen. She was no longer a
cloddish lump of horseflesh, but an individual, a soul; Gregg's hand fell