“My name is James Clanton.”

Roush let fall a surprised oath.  “It’s ’Lindy Clanton you look like!  You’re her brother—­the kid, Jimmie.”

“You’ve guessed it, Devil Dave.”

The eyes of the two crossed like rapiers.

“Howcome you here?  Whad you want?” asked Roush thickly.

Already he had made up his mind to kill, but he wanted to choose his own moment.  The instinct of the killer is always to take his enemy at advantage.  Clanton, with that sixth sense which serves the fighter, read his purpose as if he had printed it on a sign.

“You know why I’m here—­to stomp the life out of you an’ yore brother for what you done to my sister.  I’ve listened to yore brags about what you would do when you met up with them that killed Ranse Roush.  Fine!  Now let’s see you make good.  I’m the man that ran him down an’ put an end to him.  Go through, you four-flushin’ coward!  Come a-shootin’ whenever you’re ready.”

The young Southerner had a definite motive in his jeering.  He wanted to drive his enemies to attack him before they could come at him from two sides.

“You—­you killed Ranse?”

“You heard me say it once.”  The eyes of the boy flashed for a moment to the red-headed man.  “Whyfor are you dodgin’ back of the bar, Hugh Roush?  Ain’t odds of two to one good enough for you—­an’ that one only a kid—­without you runnin’ to cover like the coyote you are?  Looks like you’ll soon be whinin’ for me not to shoot, just like Ranse did.”

If any one had cared to notice, the colored roust-about might have been seen at that moment vanishing out of the back door to a zone of safety.  He showed no evidence whatever of being sleepy.

The silence that followed the words of the boy was broken by Quantrell’s old grayback.  Dave Roush was a bad man—­a killer.  He had three notches on his gun.  Perhaps he had killed others before coming West.  At any rate, he was no fair match for this undersized boy.

“He’s a kid, Dave.  You don’t want to gun a kid.  You, Clanton—­whatever you call yourself—­light a shuck pronto—­git out!”

It is the habit of the killer to look for easy game.  Out of the corner of his eye the man who had betrayed ’Lindy Clanton saw that Hugh was edging back of the bar and dragging out his gun.  This boy could be killed safely now, since they were two to one, both of them experts with the revolver.  To let him escape would be to live in constant danger for the future.

“He’s askin’ for it, Reb.  He’s goin’ to get it.”

Dave Roush pulled his gun, but before he could use it two shots rang out almost simultaneously.  The man at the corner of the bar had the advantage.  His revolver was in the clear before that of Clanton, but Jim fired from the hip without apparent aim.  The bullet was flung from the barrel an imperceptible second before that of Roush.  The gunman, hit in the wrist of the right hand, gave a grunt and took shelter back of the bar.