The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from some one.

“Look how he packs his gun.”

Another man answering whispered:  “There’s not six men in Utah who pack a gun thet way.”

Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest fraction of a second.  The brick color of his face turned a dirty white.

“Do you know me?” demanded Hare.

Chance’s answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip.  Hare’s arm moved quicker, and Chance’s Colt went spinning to the floor.

“Too slow,” said Hare.  Then he flung Chance backward and struck him blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall.  Chance sank to the floor in a heap.

Hare kicked the outlaw’s gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd.  Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his clear eyes shining like light on ice.

“Do you know me?” asked Hare, curtly.

Holderness started slightly.  “I certainly don’t,” he replied.

“You slapped my face once.”  Hare leaned close to the rancher.  “Slap it now—­you rustler!”

In the slow, guarded instant when Hare’s gaze held Holderness and the other men, a low murmuring ran through the room.

“Dene’s spy!” suddenly burst out Holderness.

Hare slapped his face.  Then he backed a few paces with his right arm held before him almost as high as his shoulder, the wrist rigid, the fingers quivering.

“Don’t try to draw, Holderness.  Thet’s August Naab’s trick with a gun,” whispered a man, hurriedly.

“Holderness, I made a bonfire over at Seeping Springs,” said Hare.  “I burned the new corrals your men built, and I tracked them to your ranch.  Snood threw up his job when he heard it.  He’s an honest man, and no honest man will work for a water-thief, a cattle-rustler, a sheep-killer.  You’re shown up, Holderness.  Leave the country before some one kills you—­understand, before some one kills you!”

Holderness stood motionless against the bar, his eyes fierce with passionate hate.

Hare backed step by step to the outside door, his right hand still high, his look holding the crowd bound to the last instant.  Then he slipped out, scattered the group round Silvermane, and struck hard with the spurs.

The gray, never before spurred, broke down the road into his old wild speed.

Men were crossing from the corner of the green square.  One, a compact little fellow, swarthy, his dark hair long and flowing, with jaunty and alert air, was Dene, the outlaw leader.  He stopped, with his companions, to let the horse cross.

Hare guided the thundering stallion slightly to the left.  Silvermane swerved and in two mighty leaps bore down on the outlaw.  Dene saved himself by quickly leaping aside, but even as he moved Silvermane struck him with his left fore-leg, sending him into the dust.