The two had been enemies for years, rivals for control of the range and for leadership in the community.  Before that, as young men, they had been candidates for the hand of the girl that the better one had won.  The sheepman was shrewd and cunning, but he had no such force of character as Crawford.  At the bottom of his heart, though he seethed with hatred, he quailed before that level gaze.  Did his foe have the house surrounded with his range-riders?  Did he mean to make him pay with his life for the thing he had done?

Steelman laughed uneasily.  An option lay before him.  He could fight or he could throw up the hand he had dealt himself from a stacked deck.  If he let his enemy walk away scot free, some day he would probably have to pay Crawford with interest.  His choice was a characteristic one.

“Well, I reckon you’ve kinda upset my plans, Em.  ‘Course I was a-coddin’ you.  I didn’t aim to hurt you none, though I’d ‘a’ liked to have talked you outa the water-holes.”

The big cattleman ignored this absolutely.  “Have a team hitched right away.  Shorty will ’tend to that.  Bob, tie up yore friend’s haid with a handkerchief.”

Without an instant’s hesitation Hart thrust his revolver back into its holster.  He was willing to trust Crawford to dominate this group of lawless foes, every one of whom held some deep grudge against him.  One he had sent to the penitentiary.  Another he had actually kicked out of his employ.  A third was in his debt for many injuries received.  Almost any of them would have shot him in the back on a dark night, but none had the cold nerve to meet him in the open.  For even in a land which bred men there were few to match Emerson Crawford.

Shorty looked at Steelman.  “I’m waitin’, Brad,” he said.

The sheepman nodded sullenly.  “You done heard your orders, Shorty.”

The ex-convict reached for his steeple hat, thrust his revolver back into its holster, and went jingling from the room.  He looked insolently at Crawford as he passed.

“Different here.  If it was my say-so I’d go through.”

Hart administered first aid to his friend.  “I’m servin’ notice, Miller, that some day I’ll bust you wide and handsome for this,” he said, looking straight at the fat gambler.  “You have give Dave a raw deal, and you’ll not get away with it.”

“I pack a gun.  Come a-shootin’ when you’re ready,” retorted Miller.

“Tha’s liable to be right soon, you damn horsethief.  We’ve rid ’most a hundred miles to have a li’l’ talk with you and yore pardner there.”

“Shoutin’ about that race yet, are you?  If I wasn’t a better loser than you—­”

“Don’t bluff, Miller.  You know why we trailed you.”

Doble edged into the talk.  He was still short of wind, but to his thick wits a denial seemed necessary.  “We ain’t got yore broncs.”

“Who mentioned our broncs?” Hart demanded, swiftly.