“I do,” said Wright.

I studied him with apparent amusement.  It had taken only one glance around for me to divine that Sampson would enjoy any kind of a clash between Wright and me.  “Huh!  You fired me once before an’ it didn’t go, Wright.  I reckon you don’t stack up here as strong as you think.”

He was facing the porch, moody, preoccupied, somber, all the time.  Only a little of his mind was concerned with me.  Manifestly there were strong forces at work.  Both men were strained to a last degree, and Wright could be made to break at almost a word.  Sampson laughed mockingly at this sally of mine, and that stung Wright.  He stopped his pacing and turned his handsome, fiery eyes on me.  “Sampson, I won’t stand this man’s impudence.”

“Aw, Wright, cut that talk.  I’m not impudent.  Sampson knows I’m a good fellow, on the square, and I have you sized up about O.K.”

“All the same, Russ, you’d better dig out,” said Sampson.  “Don’t kick up any fuss.  We’re busy with deals to-day.  And I expect visitors.”

“Sure.  I won’t stay around where I ain’t wanted,” I replied.  Then I lit my cigarette and did not move an inch out of my tracks.

Sampson sat in a chair near the door; the table upon which lay his gun stood between him and Wright.  This position did not invite me to start anything.  But the tension had begun to be felt.  Sampson had his sharp gaze on me.  “What’d you come for, anyway?” he asked suddenly.

“Well, I had some news I was asked to fetch in.”

“Get it out of you then.”

“See here now, Mr. Sampson, the fact is I’m a tender-hearted fellow.  I hate to hurt people’s feelin’s.  And if I was to spring this news in Mr. Wright’s hearin’, why, such a sensitive, high-tempered gentleman as he would go plumb off his nut.”  Unconcealed sarcasm was the dominant note in that speech.  Wright flared up, yet he was eagerly curious.  Sampson, probably, thought I was only a little worse for drink, and but for the way I rubbed Wright he would not have tolerated me at all.

“What’s this news?  You needn’t be afraid of my feelings,” said Wright.

“Ain’t so sure of that,” I drawled.  “It concerns the lady you’re sweet on, an’ the ranger you ain’t sweet on.”

Sampson jumped up.  “Russ, had Diane gone out to meet Steele?” he asked angrily.

“Sure she had,” I replied.

I thought Wright would choke.  He was thick-necked anyway, and the gush of blood made him tear at the soft collar of his shirt.  Both men were excited now, moving about, beginning to rouse.  I awaited my chance, patient, cold, all my feelings shut in the vise of my will.

“How do you know she met Steele?” demanded Sampson.

“I was there.  I met Sally at the same time.”

“But why should my daughter meet this Ranger?”

“She’s in love with him and he’s in love with her.”

The simple statement might have had the force of a juggernaut.  I reveled in Wright’s state, but I felt sorry for Sampson.  He had not outlived his pride.  Then I saw the leaping thought—­would this daughter side against him?  Would she help to betray him?  He seemed to shrivel up, to grow old while I watched him.