“Hopkins and Bob Dodson. I kinda figured they were lookout men for him. Say, you don’t have to play a lone hand. I’d as lief sit in. Byers, too.” “No, Jim. My hand’s stronger if I play it alone. Much obliged, just the same.” Budd conceded this as a matter of principle, but he was reluctant to do so in practice. “Well, don’t you get careless, Kid. Dutch is sudden death with a gun. Sure is.” Opposite Dodson & Dodson’s Emporium was the Mammoth Saloon. “Tack one on the door, Uncle Ned,” said Hugh. McClintock spoke without looking at the bill sticker. He was watching three men standing in front of the store opposite. One of these hastily retreated inside. The two who remained were Dutch and Hopkins. The killer growled a warning. “Lay off on that bill stickin’. It don’t go here.” Hugh stepped across the street. He moved evenly and without haste. “Well, well, if it ain’t Sam Dutch, chief of Virginia and Aurora, just as big as life and as handsome. Lemme see, you were takin’ the Candelabria stage last time I saw you.” Smilingly the young man began to hum, “Git out de way, ole Dan Tucker.” But the smile was of the lips only. His steely eyes held those of the big ruffian fast. A snarling sound that might have been an oath fell from the ugly lips of the gun-fighter. His face reflected his slow thoughts. Should he strike now? He knew that a dozen men were waiting for the sound of a shot, that they expected him to kill McClintock on sight. Well, he would kill him all right—soon. Without lifting his eyes for an instant from his enemy, Hugh gave the old Negro the order a second time: “Nail up the bill, Uncle. Mr. Dutch is joking. You _are_ joking, aren’t you?” Dutch glared at Hugh furiously. He moistened his dry lips with his tongue. From the left boot leg McClintock drew a bowie knife. The horn handle was marked in a peculiar way. Hugh had shown it to a dozen men, and most of them had recognized it. One of the pleasant habits of Dutch was to play with it threateningly before a fascinated circle of reluctant admirers. Now the young man held it up in his left hand. “I’m tryin’ to find an owner for this knife. Happen to know him, Mr. Dutch?” The straight, swift probe of the eyes was cold as iron, hard as hammered brass. It was a call for a showdown. The men watching from the store windows, from the saloon opposite, from the blacksmith shop below, knew that a demand had been made on Dutch for a declaration of intentions. In the silence which followed, men suspended their breathing. The shadow of death hung low over the two tense figures standing out in relief.