Moreover, Molloy had no love for Pool Clayton. He had a feeling that Clayton thought himself the better of the two, and it had aroused his dislike and enmity. “So you’ve come sneakin’ in, have ye?” he sneered, his little eyes gleaming with vindictive animosity. “I shouldn’t think you would, after that!” Pool Clayton’s face flushed to a deep red, then paled. He had expected to receive the jeers of the outlaws, but it did not please him to have this young fellow begin the thing. Nor did it please him to discover, as he did at once, that Molloy was leader here, in the absence of the chief. “Where have they gone?” he asked, ignoring Molloy’s words. “Gone to rake in another prisoner fer you to shoot!” was the brutal answer. One of the outlaws “ha-hahed” at this, his sympathies being against Clayton. “And as the other one is here yit, you’ll have two to shoot, soon’s the boss gits back.” Clayton did not answer, but slid out of his saddle. “The boss said that if you did come back you’d got to do what he ordered ye to, er he’d sure shoot you!” Molloy added, with a sneer. Clayton picketed his horse, and returned to where the outlaws were grouped. At one side lay the prisoner, old Nick Nomad; and Nomad’s horse was with the other horses, grazing by the stream. “You heard what I said?” snapped Molloy. “Yes, I heard what you said.” Clayton felt and looked confused. His cheeks burned hot again, and he knew he was trembling a little. Yet he tried to hide this indication of weakness. Some of the men greeted him, but coldly and rather surlily. He saw that he had fallen in their estimation. It was a rule of the band that whatever the “boss” ordered had to be done, and no questions asked. Clayton had refused to obey orders, and that made him a marked man. “If you heard what I said, why don’t you answer?” Molloy demanded. “I don’t have to,” Clayton flared, shaken by growing anger. “Who are _you_, anyway?” Molloy doubled a hairy red fist and stepped in front of him. “You don’t, hey? I reckon you know I’m commander here now?” “Yes.” Clayton eyed that hairy and threatening fist. “Then speak with respect to me. Do you understand that? You’ve got to speak with respect to me, or I’ll hammer your face in ag’in.” “It wasn’t you did it.” “You think I can’t, eh?” Molloy shook his hairy, red fist under Clayton’s nose. Clayton hesitated, and looked about uneasily. He knew that since his refusal of the night he was looked on as a coward by these men. Molloy was bullying him because of that. Molloy was himself the coward, and Clayton felt it--yet he hesitated, merely pushing the red fist away when it was thrust so close that it touched the tip of his nose. “Don’t do that!” he protested mildly; so mildly that Molloy was only encouraged to continue his bullying. “I’m not to, eh?” said Molloy, pushing his fist once more against Clayton’s nose, this time with such strength it was almost a blow.