The bully sipped at his highball and deliberately selected another knife. To Bucky’s swift inspection it was plain he had drunk too much and that a very little slip might make an end of the boy. The fascinated horror in the lad’s gaze showed that he realized his danger. “Now, f’ler cit’zens, I will continue for your ’musement by puttin’ next two knives on right and lef’ sides of his cheek. Observe, pleash, that these will land less than an inch from hish eyes. As the champion knife thrower in the universe I claim—” What he claimed his audience had to guess, for at this instant another person took a part in the act. Bucky had stepped lightly across the intervening space on the shoulders of the tightly packed crowd and had dropped as lightly to the ground in front of the astonished champion of the universe. “I reckon you’ve about wore out that target. What’s the matter with trying a brand new one,” drawled the ranger, his quiet, unwavering eye fixed on the bloated, mottled face of the imitation “bad man.” The bully, half seas over, leaned forward and gripped his knife. He was sober enough to catch the jeer running through the other’s words without being sufficiently master of himself to appreciate the menace that underlay them. “Wha’s that? Say that again!” he burst out, purple to the collar line. He was not used to having beardless boys with long, soft eyelashes interfering with his amusements, and a blind rage flooded his heart. “I allowed that a change of targets would vary the entertainment, if you haven’t any objections, seh,” the blue-eyed stranger explained mildly. “Who is this kid?” demanded the bully, with a sweep of his arm toward the intruder. Nobody seemed to know, wherefore the ranger himself gave the information mildly: “Bucky O’Connor they call me.” A faint murmur of surprise soughed through the crowd, for Bucky O’Connor of the Arizona Rangers was by way of being a public hero just now on account of his capture of Fernendez, the stage robber. But the knife thrower had but lately arrived in the country. The youth carried with him none of the earmarks of his trade, unless it might be that quiet, steady gaze that seemed to search the soul. His voice was soft and drawling, his manner almost apologetic. In the smile that came and went was something sweet and sunny, in his bearing a gay charm that did not advertise the recklessness that bubbled from his daredevil spirit. Surely here was an easy victim upon whom to vent his spleen, thought the other in his growing passion. “You want to be my target, do you?” he demanded, tugging ferociously at his long mustache. “If you please, seh.” The fellow swore a vile oath. “Just as you say. Line up beside the other kid.” With three strides Bucky reached the wall, and turned. “Let ’er go,” his gentle voice murmured.