Phil swallowed hard.  He had grown white beneath the tan.  The thing they were about to do seemed awful to him.

“Good God!  You’re not going to murder him, are you?” protested Larrabie.

“He murdered poor Jesus Menendez, didn’t he?”

“You mean you’re going to shoot him down in cold blood?”

“What’s the matter with hanging?” Slim asked brutally.

“No,” spoke up Keller quickly.

The old man nodded agreement.  “No—­they didn’t hang Menendez.”

“Your sheep herder died—­if he died at all, and we have no proof of it—­with a gun in his hands,” Larrabie said.

“That’s right,” admitted Phil quickly.  “That’s right.  We got to give him a chance.”

“What sort of a chance would you like to give him?” Sanderson asked of the boy.

“Let him fight for his life.  Give him a gun, and me one.  We’ll settle this for good and all.”

The eyes of the old Confederate gleamed, though he negatived the idea promptly.

“That wouldn’t be a square deal, Phil.  He’s our prisoner, and he has killed one of our men.  It wouldn’t be right for one of us to meet him on even terms.”

“Give me a gun, and I’ll meet all of you!” cried Weaver, eyes gleaming.

“By God, you’re on!  That’s a sporting proposition,” Sanderson retorted promptly.  “Lets us out, too.  I don’t fancy killing in cold blood, myself.  Of course we’ll get you, but you’ll have a run for your money first, by gum.”

“Maybe you’ll get me, and maybe you won’t.  Is this little vendetta to be settled with revolvers, or rifles?”

“Make it rifles,” Phil suggested quickly.

There was always a chance that, if the battle were fought at long range, the cattleman might reach the hill canons in safety.

Keller was helpless.  He lived in a man’s world, where each one fought for his own head and took his own fighting chance.  Weaver had proposed an adjustment of the difficulty, and his enemies had accepted his offer.  Even if the Sandersons would have tolerated further interference, the cattleman would not.

Moreover Keller’s hands were tied as to taking sides.  He could not fight by the side of the owner of the Twin Star Ranch against the father and brother of Phyllis.  There was only one thing to do, and that offered little hope.  He slipped quietly from the room and from the house, swung to the back of a horse he found saddled in the place and galloped wildly down the road toward the schoolhouse.

Phyllis had much influence over her father.  If she could reach the scene in time, she might prevent the duel.

His pony went up and down the hills as in a moving-picture play.

Meanwhile terms of battle were arranged at once, without haggling on either side.  Weaver was to have a repeating Winchester and a belt full of cartridges, the others such weapons as they chose.  The duel was to start with two hundred and fifty yards separating the combatants, but this distance could be increased or diminished at will.  Such cover as was to be found might be used.