“I won’t stand it now.  Not from any one—­especially not you.”

“Ahuh!  Well, I’m afraid it’ll stick,” replied Moore, with sarcasm.  “It sure suits you.  Don’t you bust everything you monkey with?  Your old dad will sure be glad to see you bust the round-up to-day—­and I reckon the outfit to-morrow.”

“You insolent cowpuncher!” shouted Belllounds, growing beside himself with rage.  “If you don’t shut up I’ll bust your face.”

“Shut up!...  Me?  Nope.  It can’t be did.  This is a free country, Buster Jack.”  There was no denying Moore’s cool, stinging repetition of the epithet that had so affronted Belllounds.

“I always hated you!” he rasped out, hoarsely.  Striking hard at Moore, he missed, but a second effort landed a glancing blow on the cowboy’s face.

Moore staggered back, recovered his balance, and, hitting out shortly, he returned the blow.  Belllounds fell against the corral fence, which upheld him.

“Buster Jack—­you’re crazy!” cried the cowboy, his eyes flashing.  “Do you think you can lick me—­after where you’ve been these three years?”

Like a maddened boy Belllounds leaped forward, this time his increased violence and wildness of face expressive of malignant rage.  He swung his arms at random.  Moore avoided his blows and planted a fist squarely on his adversary’s snarling mouth.  Belllounds fell with a thump.  He got up with clumsy haste, but did not rush forward again.  His big, prominent eyes held a dark and ugly look.  His lower jaw wabbled as he panted for breath and speech at once.

“Moore—­I’ll kill—­you!” he hissed, with glance flying everywhere for a weapon.  From ground to cowboys he looked.  Bludsoe was the only one packing a gun.  Belllounds saw it, and he was so swift in bounding forward that he got a hand on it before Bludsoe could prevent.

“Let go!  Give me—­that gun!  By God!  I’ll fix him!” yelled Belllounds, as Bludsoe grappled with him.

There was a sharp struggle.  Bludsoe wrenched the other’s hands free, and, pulling the gun, he essayed to throw it.  But Belllounds blocked his action and the gun fell at their feet.

“Grab it!” sang out Bludsoe, ringingly.  “Quick, somebody!  The damned fool’ll kill Wils.”

Lem, running in, kicked the gun just as Belllounds reached for it.  When it rolled against the fence Jim was there to secure it.  Lem likewise grappled with the struggling Belllounds.

“Hyar, you Jack Belllounds,” said Lem, “couldn’t you see Wils wasn’t packin’ no gun?  A-r’arin’ like thet!...  Stop your rantin’ or we’ll sure handle you rough.”

“The old man’s comin’,” called Jim, warningly.

The rancher appeared.  He strode swiftly, ponderously.  His gray hair waved.  His look was as stern as that of an eagle.

“What the hell’s goin’ on?” he roared.

The cowboys released Jack.  That worthy, sullen and downcast, muttering to himself, stalked for the house.