A Knife in Time --------------- By Ray Humphreys Author of “The Mutt,” etc. Good mule skinners were at a premium with the Q B freighting outfit, or Tom Morgan couldn’t have held his job ten minutes. Tom, drifting in from nowhere, had fully demonstrated to McCarthy, the wagon boss, that he could handle a six-mule hitch. He seemed to have a way with mules; he also had a sheath knife in plain view. “You’re hired,” said McCarthy. “I’m needin’ good men to handle that Red Cliff ore contract--but what’s the idea o’ that scalpin’ knife ye’re carrying there?” The stranger had just grinned and shrugged, which made him look more insignificant than before--for he was undersize, underweight, and altogether unattractive. “No idea,” he answered with a grunt back. “Then scrap it, fer this is no fightin’ outfit,” advised McCarthy, “an’ a knife----” “I always carry it,” said Morgan, with such evident finality in his words that McCarthy swallowed what he meant to say. After all, a driver was a driver, and Morgan had proved he could handle the ribbons. The matter of the knife could be postponed a while at that, for the Red Cliff contract would brook no delay, and three six-mule hitches, minus drivers, were eating their heads off in the corrals. “Pick your team,” said McCarthy, as he showed the new driver the surplus animals. “I’ll take any of ’em,” said Morgan indifferently; “mules is mules, boss!” So Morgan came to work for the Q B, the biggest freighting outfit in the Colorado Hills. The Q B handled ore and timber contracts, conducted a number of stage and freight lines, and occasionally worked big grading jobs. The knife that had attracted McCarthy’s attention when he hired Morgan, speedily put the new driver in bad with the wagon crews, who viewed him askance. “A knife thrower, eh?” commented “Big Jim” Williams. “The little runt ain’t man enough to fight his battles like a white man. He must be a fine feller!” “Him and his sword,” said another driver bitterly. “I’d not trust him far behind me back!” The remarks were meant for Morgan to hear. He did. He reddened, protested, flared up--but the persecution did not cease. It grew worse as the days went on. Finally McCarthy, the wagon boss, grew desperate. The men were goading Morgan to violence, and the wagon boss trembled to think what would happen if Morgan sent his knife flashing home on some unlucky teamster. Murder--perhaps a lynching, afterward--and scandal, and “Old Man” Ashton, the wealthy owner, fuming in from Denver to find a new wagon boss. “Still,” debated McCarthy, “if I can him there’ll be a six-mule team in the corrals idle, and the ol’ man will raise Ned ef he sees that!” So, seeking a solution to the trouble, the wagon boss went to some of the skinners.