“Well, I’m servin’ notice right now that when any one drops around any jokes about me bein’ buffaloed, he’s foolin’ with dynamite.  No man alive can run a sandy on me an’ git away with it.”

The chill eyes of Albeen, narrowed to shining slits, focused on Roush menacingly.  All present understood that he was offering Devil Dave a choice.  He could draw steel, or he could side-step the issue.

The campers had been playing poker with white navy beans for chips.  Roush, undecided, gathered up in his fingers the little pile of them in front of him and let them sift down again to the blanket on the edge of which he sat.  Some day he and Albeen would have to settle this quarrel once for all.  But not to-night.  Dave wanted the breaks with him when that hour came.  He intended to make a sure thing of it.  Albeen was one of those fire-eaters who would play into his hand by his reckless courage.  Better have patience and watch for his chance against the one-armed gunman.

“I ain’t aimin’ to ride you any, Albeen,” he said sulkily.

“Lay off’n me, then,” advised the other curtly.

Roush grumbled something inaudible.  It might have been a promise.  It might have been a protest.  Yankie jumped into the breach and began to talk.

“I couldn’t git away from the old man yesterday.  I think he’s suspicious about me.  Anyhow, he acts like he is.  I came in to Live-Oaks to-night without notifyin’ him an’ I got to be back in camp before mornin’.  Here’s my plan.  I’ve got a new rider out from Kansas for his health.  He’s gun-shy.  I’ll leave him in charge of this bunch of stock overnight on. the berrendo.  He’ll run like a scared deer at the first shot.  Hustle the beeves over the pass an’ keep ’em movin’ till you come to Lost Cache.”

Crouched over the blanket, they discussed details and settled them.  Yankie rose to leave and Roush followed him to his horse.

“Don’t git a notion I’m scared of Albeen, Joe,” he explained.  “No one-armed, hammered-down little runt can bluff me for a second.  When I’m good an’ ready I’ll settle with him, but I’m not goin’ to wreck this business we’re on by any personal difficulty.”

“That’s right, Dave,” agreed the foreman of the Flying V Y.  “We all understand how you feel.”

Yankie, busy fastening a cinch, had his forehead pressed against the saddle and could afford a grin.  He knew that the courage of a killer is largely dependent on his physical well-being.  If he is cold or hungry or exhausted, his nerve is at low ebb; if life is running strong in his arteries his grit is above par.  For years Roush had been drinking to excess.  He had reached the point where he dared not face in the open a man like Albeen with nerves of unflawed steel.  The declension of a gunman, if once it begins, is rapid and sure.  One of those days, unless Roush were killed first, some mild-looking citizen would take his gun from him and kick him out of a bar-room.