"Certainly not," said Stacey, by no means displeased at the prospect of
having so pretty and intelligent a witness in the daughter of what he
believed would form an attractive display of his diplomatic skill and
graciousness to the father. "Don't go away. I've got nothing to say Miss
Cressy could not understand and answer."

The jingling of spurs, and the shadow of McKinstry and his shot-gun
falling at this moment between the speaker and Cressy, spared her
the necessity of a reply. McKinstry cast an uneasy glance around the
apartment, and not seeing Mrs. McKinstry looked relieved, and even the
deep traces of the loss of a valuable steer that morning partly faded
from his Indian-red complexion. He placed his shot-gun carefully in the
corner, took his soft felt hat from his head, folded it and put it in
one of the capacious pockets of his jacket, turned to his daughter, and
laying his maimed hand familiarly on her shoulder, said gravely, without
looking at Stacey, "What might the stranger be wantin', Cress?"

"Perhaps I'd better answer that myself," said Stacey briskly. "I'm
acting for Benham and Co., of San Francisco, who have bought the Spanish
title to part of this property. I"--

"Stop there!" said McKinstry, in a voice dull but distinct. He took his
hat from his pocket, put it on, walked to the corner and took up his
gun, looked at Stacey for the first time with narcotic eyes that
seemed to drowsily absorb his slight figure, then put the gun back half
contemptuously, and with a wave of his hand towards the door, said:
"We'll settle this yer outside. Cress, you stop in here. There's man's
talk goin' on."