“Listen to me,” answered the foreman, “don’t let him get inside this house.  I’d rather take part of hell into a house of mine.  Besides, if he sees me—­”

“He’s coming here, but he’s not going to see either of us—­my mind is made up—­neither of us until I have him helpless.”

CHAPTER XXIII

THE COMEDY SETTING

“Dead, you mean,” broke in Nash, “because otherwise he’ll never be helpless.”

“I tell you, Nash,” said the other solemnly, “I can make him helpless with one minute of talk.  My problem is to keep that wild devil harmless while he listens to me talk.  Another thing—­if he ever sees me, nothing but death will stop him from coming at my throat.”

“Speakin’ personal,” said the other coldly, “I never take no chances on fellers that might come at my throat.”

“I know; you’re for the quick draw and the quick finish.  But I’d rather die myself than have a hair of his head hurt.  I mean that!”

Nash, his thoughts spinning, stood staring blankly.

“I give up tryin’ to figure it out; but if he’s comin’ here and you want to keep him safe I’d better take a fresh hoss and get twenty miles away before night.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind; you’ll stay here with me.”

“And face him without a gun?” asked the other incredulously.

“Leave gun talk out of this.  I think one of the boys looks a little like me.  Lawlor—­isn’t that his name?”

“Him?  Yes; a little bit like you—­but he’s got his thickness through the stomach and not through the chest.”

“Never mind.  He’s big, and he’s grey.  Send for him, and get the rest of the boys in here.  They’re around now for noon.  Get every one.  Understand?  And make it fast.”

In ten minutes they came to the office in a troop—­rough men, smooth men, little and big, fat and thin, but good cattlemen, every one.

“Boys,” said Drew, “a tenderfoot is coming to the ranch to-day.  I’m going to play a few jokes on him.  First of all, I want you to know that until the stranger leaves the house, Lawlor is going to take my place.  He is going to be Drew.  Understand?”

“Lawlor?” broke out several of them, and turned in surprise to a big, cheerful man—­grey, plump, with monstrous white whiskers.

“Because he looks a bit like me.  First, you’ll have to crop those whiskers, Lawlor.”

He clutched at the threatened whiskers with both hands.

“Crop ’em?  Chief, you ain’t maybe runnin’ me a bit?”

“Not a bit,” said Drew, smiling faintly.  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

“It took me thirty years to raise them whiskers,” said the cattleman, stern with rebuke.  “D’you think I could be hired to give ’em up?  It’s like givin’ up some of myself.”

“Let them go, then.  You can play the part, whiskers and all.  The rest of you remember that Lawlor is the boss.”