“Do you intend to marry her?”

Wickersham laughed, heartily and spontaneously.

“Oh, come now, Keith.  Are you going to marry the dance-hall keeper, simply because she has white teeth?”

Keith frowned a little.

“Never mind about me.  Do you propose to marry her?  She, at least, does not keep a dance-hall.”

“No; I shall leave that for you.”  His face and tone were insolent, and Keith gripped his chair.  He felt himself flush.  Then his blood surged back; but he controlled himself and put by the insolence for the moment.

“Leave me out of the matter.  Do you know what you are doing?” His voice was a little unsteady.

“I know at least what you are doing:  interfering in my business.  I know how to take care of myself, and I don’t need your assistance.”

“I was not thinking of you, but of her—­”

“That’s the difference between us.  I was,” said Ferdy, coolly.  He rolled a cigarette.

“Well, you will have need to think of yourself if you wrong that girl,” said Keith.  “For I tell you now that if anything were to happen to her, your life would not be worth a button in these mountains.”

“There are other places besides the mountains,” observed Wickersham.  But Keith noticed that he had paled a little and his voice had lost some of its assurance.

“I don’t believe the world would be big enough to hide you.  I know two men who would kill you on sight.”

“Who is the other one?” asked Wickersham.

“I am not counting myself—­yet,” said Keith, quietly.  “It would not be necessary.  The old squire and Dave Dennison would take my life if I interfered with their rights.”

“You are prudent,” said Ferdy.

“I am forbearing,” said Keith.

Wickersham’s tone was as insolent as ever, but as he leaned over and reached for a match, Keith observed that his hand shook slightly.  And the eyes that were levelled at Keith through the smoke of his cigarette were unsteady.

Next morning Ferdy Wickersham had a long interview with Plume, and that night Mr. Plume had a conference in his private office with a man—­a secret conference, to judge from the care with which doors were locked, blinds pulled down, and voices kept lowered.  He was a stout, youngish fellow, with a low forehead, lowering eyes, and a sodden face.  He might once have been good-looking, but drink was written on Mr. William Bluffy now in ineffaceable characters.  Plume alternately cajoled him and hectored him, trying to get his consent to some act which he was unwilling to perform.

“I don’t see the slightest danger in it,” insisted Plume, “and you did not use to be afraid.  Your nerves must be getting loose.”

The other man’s eyes rested on him with something like contempt.

“My nerves’re all right.  I ain’t skeered; but I don’t want to mix up in your ——­ business.  If a man wants trouble with me, he can get it and he knows how to do it.  I don’t like yer man Wickersham—­not a little bit.  But I don’t want to do it that way.  I’d like to meet him fair and full on the street and settle which was the best man.”