Afterwards those present spoke of the contrast between the sullen sodden killer and the erect, soldierly athlete facing him. The guttural snarl, the great slouching apelike figure of the one suggested a throwback to prehistoric days. The clear expressive eyes, the unconscious grace and nobility of carriage, the quiet confidence of manner in the other were products of a new land flowering to manhood. Men breathed again. Their hearts functioned normally once more. Dutch had chosen to dodge the challenge. “I dunno as I know more about him than anybody else,” he had growled. Hugh did not relax the thrust of his eyes. “No? Thought maybe you did. I found it at the storage warehouse, corner of the alley, up the avenue. Didn’t leave it there?” Dutch did not answer at once. Inside, he surged with murderous impulse. He might beat this fellow McClintock to the draw. He had always boasted that he wanted no more than an even break with any man alive. Well, he had it here. “Who says I left it there?” he demanded. “I’m asking if you did.” The killer’s right hand hung motionless. A weight paralyzed his will. These McClintocks had the Indian sign on him. Deep in him a voice whispered that if he accepted the challenge he was lost. Better wait and get this fellow right when he had no chance. “No-o.” To Dutch it seemed that the husky monosyllable was dragged out of him by some external force. Tauntingly the cold voice jeered him. “Not you, then, that bushwhacked me in the alley and tried to shoot me in the back? Wouldn’t do that, would you, Dutch? Got all yore fourteen on the level, of course.” “I aim to—to give every man a show,” the gunman muttered. “Good of you. Then it couldn’t have been you that threw this knife at me and tried to gun me. It was dark. I couldn’t make out his face, but I left the marks of my fist on it a-plenty.” Now that it seemed there was to be no gun-play the watchers had come into the open. A battery of eyes focussed on the hammered face of Dutch. Cut lips, a black eye, purple weals on the forehead, and swollen cheeks told of recent punishment. “I fell down a prospect hole,” the bad man mentioned. A bark of laughter, quickly smothered, met this explanation. Dutch glared round angrily. “That prospect hole must have landed on you hard,” Hugh told him grimly. “Take my advice. _Don’t fall down any more._ Next time the shaft might shoot a hole through you.” “I ain’t scared of you none. You can’t run on me,” Dutch growled sulkily, to save his face. “One o’ these days I’m liable to get tired of you and feed you to the buzzards.” “Yes, I know you’re chief here, same as you were at Virginia and Aurora. But just to show there’s no hard feelings you’ll help Uncle Ned tack up that poster, won’t you?” “No.” “Yes.” Again Dutch’s sullen eyes battled and were beaten. “I don’t have to,” he flung out rebelliously. “Not at all,” Hugh mocked. “But out of good will you’ll do it.”