“You bet I’m full an’ I’m goin’ to bust,” shouted Jones, whose temper evidently could not abide the slow, cool speech with which he had been answered. “Wal, before you bust, explain what you mean by Springer’s outfit not ridin’ around drift-fences.” “Easy. You just cut through wire-fences,” retorted Jones. “Beady, I hate to call you a low-down liar, but that’s what you are.” “You’re another,” yelled Jones. “I seen your Texas Jack cut our drift-fence.” Nevada struck out with remarkable swiftness and force. He knocked Jones over upon a card-table, with which he crashed to the floor. Jones was so stunned that he did not recover before some of his comrades rushed to him, and helped him up. Then, black in the face and cursing savagely, he jerked for his gun. He got it out, but before he could level it, two of his friends seized him, and wrestled with him, talking in earnest alarm. But Jones fought them. “You blame fool,” finally yelled one of them. “He’s not packin’ a gun. It’d be murder.” That brought Jones to his senses, though certainly not to calmness. “Mister Nevada—next time you hit town you’d better come heeled,” he hissed between his teeth. “Shore. An’ thet’ll be bad for you, Beady,” replied Nevada, curtly. Panhandle and Andy drew Nevada out to the street, where they burst into mingled excitement and anger. Their swift strides gravitated toward the saloon across from the post-office. When they emerged sometime later they were arm in arm, and far from steady on their feet. They paraded up the one main street of Beacon, not in the least conspicuous on a Saturday afternoon. As they were neither hilarious nor dangerous, nobody paid any particular attention to them. Springer, their boss, met them, gazed at them casually, and passed without sign of recognition. If he had studied the boys closely he might have received an impression that they were hugging a secret, as well as each other. In due time the trio presented themselves at the railroad station. Tex was there, nervously striding up and down the platform, now and then looking at his watch. The afternoon train was nearly due. At the hitching-rail below the platform stood a new buckboard and a rather spirited team of horses. The boys, coming across the wide square, encountered this evidence of Tex’s extremity, and struck a posture before it. “Livery shable outfit, by gosh,” said Andy. “Thish here Tex spendin’ his money royal,” agreed Nevada. Then Tex espied them. He stared. Suddenly he jumped straight up. Striding to the edge of the platform, with face as red as a beet, he began to curse them. “Whash masher, ole pard?” asked Andy, who appeared a little less stable than his comrades. Tex’s reply was another volley of expressive profanity. And he ended with: “—you—all yellow quitters to get drunk an’ leave me in the lurch. But you gotta get away from heah. I shore won’t have you about when thet train comes.” “Tex, yore boss is in town lookin’ for you,” said Nevada.