“Look who’s telling me I can’t drink any more!” he taunted, so that nearly every man in the room turned to look at him, “It’s my guardian angel gentlemen—­Will Bransford, of the Double A!  Will Bransford—­ha, ha, ha!  Will Bransford!  Come an’ look at him, gentlemen!  Says I can’t drink any more booze.  He’s running the Double A, Bransford is.  There’s a lot I could tell you about Bransford—­a whole lot!  He ain’t——­”

His maudlin talk broke off short, for Sanderson had stepped to his side and placed a hand over his mouth.  Owen struggled, broke away, and shouted: 

“Damn you, let me alone!  I’m going to tell these people who you are.  You’re——­”

Again his talk was stilled.  This time the method was swift and certain.  Sanderson took another step toward him and struck.  His fist landed on Owen’s jaw, resounding with a vicious smack! in the sudden silence that had fallen, and Owen crumpled and sank to the floor in an inert heap.

Sanderson was bending over him, preparing to carry him to his room, when there came an interruption.  A big man, with a drawn six-shooter, stepped to Sanderson’s side.  A dozen more shoved forward and stood near him, the crowd moving back, Sanderson sensed the movement and stood erect, leaving Owen still on the floor.  One look at the hostile faces around him convinced Sanderson that the men were there by design.

He grinned mirthlessly into the face of the man with the drawn pistol.

“Frame-up, eh?” he said.  “What’s the game?”

“You’re wanted for drawin’ a gun on Dave Silverthorn—­in his office.  I’m a deputy sheriff, an’ I’ve got a warrant for you.  Want to see it?”

Sanderson did not answer.  Here was a manifestation of Dale’s power and cupidity.

The charge was a mere subterfuge, designed to deprive him of his liberty.  Sanderson had no intention of submitting.

The deputy saw resistance in the gleam of Sanderson’s eyes, and he spoke sharply, warningly: 

“Don’t try any funny business; I’ve a dozen men here!”

Sanderson laughed in his face.  He lunged forward, striking bitterly with the movement.  The deputy’s body doubled forward—­Sanderson’s fist had been driven into his stomach.  His gun clattered to the floor; he reached out, trying to grasp Sanderson, who evaded him and struck upward viciously.

The deputy slid to the floor, and Sanderson stood beside the table, his gun menacing the deputy’s followers.

Sanderson had worked fast.  Possibly the deputy’s men had anticipated no resistance from Sanderson, or they had been stunned with the rapidity with which he had placed their leader out of action.

Not one of them had drawn a weapon.  They watched Sanderson silently as he began to back away from them, still covering them with his pistol.

Sanderson had decided to desert Owen; the man had proved a traitor, and could not expect any consideration.  Owen might talk—­Sanderson expected he would talk; but he did not intend to jeopardize his liberty by staying to find out.