“Great tornadoes!” cried the man in black. “Who’s boss here, anyway, Phelps? Have you got the say about things on your own place?” Phelps felt around himself uncertainly. He might have been groping for a revolver, but, if he was, he failed to get hold of one. “Go ’way!” ordered Phelps, glaring. “If you haven’t got any business here, go ’way. Can’t you see it’s my busy day?” “It’s my busy day, too,” returned the scout. “This is far from being a social call. Your name is Phelps?” “That’s my name.” “And yours”--the scout leveled a glance at the man in black--“is Benner?” “Yes,” answered Benner, “if it means anything to you. But I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want any stranger butting in here. Phelps owns this place, and he’s ordered you out. Make yourself scarce.” “If you don’t make yourself scarce,” declared Benner, “I’ll yell for some of my cowboys. They’ll handle you rough, but if you don’t go on my order you’ll bring it on yourself.” The hands of both barons were now searching unsteadily for firearms. Fearing that one of them might lay hands on a six-shooter and accidentally work some havoc with it, the scout took time by the forelock and developed one of his own weapons. “I reckon we’d better understand each other right from the start,” said he. “I came here to talk business, and I’m not going to leave until the business is settled. The cowboys outside are not going to interfere with us, and if one of you men lifts his voice to call for help, there’ll be fireworks--and the celebration will be mine, not yours. Hold out your hands.” Both barons sputtered wrathfully. “No man,” fumed Phelps, “can come into my house and draw a gun on me. By thunder, I won’t have it!” “I’m here,” said the scout, “and the gun is drawn. I reckon you’ll have to have it--or something worse. Hold out your hands! I’m not in the habit of giving an order like that twice.” There was that in the scout’s eyes and voice that struck fear to the hearts of the cattle barons. They held out their hands--held them out at their sides, on a level with their shoulders. An idea of a grimly humorous turn flashed through the scout’s mind. “Back to back, gentlemen,” said he, fanning the revolver back and forth so as to command the two impartially. “Who are you?” demanded Phelps, with an oath. “I’m a man who’s accustomed to being obeyed. Buffalo Bill is the name, gentlemen.” The barons were not so far gone with liquor as not to feel a thrill at the sound of that name. And there were a few qualms mixed with the thrills. “Red Steve was telling me about you!” broke from Benner. “He got to the ranch before I started for here and----” “He delivered my message, did he?” asked the scout. “If he did, you’ll understand that this call of mine this morning is on behalf of the under dog. You heard what I said?” The scout got up and advanced toward the barons. “Back to back!” The two men, their angry eyes on the revolver, placed themselves in the position required by the scout.