"Not so you could notice it, but you never can tell when you're goin' to run into bad luck, can you?" He sat down on the porch and took a cigar from his vest pocket. "What with losin' tools and one thing an' 'nother, this oil game sure is hell. By the way, how's yore fishin' job comin' on?" "Fine, Dug. We ain't hooked our big fish yet, but we're hopeful." Dave was sitting in the shadow. Doble nodded carelessly to him without recognition. It was characteristic of his audacity that Dug had walked over impudently to spy out the camp of the enemy. Bob knew why he had come, and he knew that Bob knew. Yet both ignored the fact that he was not welcome. "I've known fellows angle a right long time for a trout and not catch him," said Doble, stretching his long legs comfortably. "Yes," agreed Bob. "Wish I could hire you to throw a monkey wrench in that engine over there. Its chuggin' keeps me awake." "I'll bet it does. Well, young fellow, you can't hire me or anybody else to stop it," retorted Doble, an edge to his voice. "Well, I just mentioned it," murmured Hart. "I don't aim to rile yore feelin's. We'll talk of somethin' else.... Hope you enjoyed that reunion this week with yore old friend, absent far, but dear to memory ever." "Referrin' to?" demanded Doble with sharp hostility. "Why, Ad Miller, Dug." "Is he a friend of mine?" "Ain't he?" "Not that I ever heard tell of." "Glad of that. You won't miss him now he's lit out." "Oh, he's lit out, has he?" "A li'l bird whispered to me he had." "When?" "This evenin', I understand." "Where'd he go?" "He didn't leave any address. Called away on sudden business." "Did he mention the business?" "Not to me." Bob turned to his friend. "Did he say anything to you about that, Dave?" In the silence one might have heard a watch tick, Doble leaned forward, his body rigid, danger written large in his burning eyes and clenched fist. "So you're back," he said at last in a low, harsh voice. "I'm back." "It would 'a' pleased me if they had put a rope round yore neck, Mr. Convict." Dave made no comment. Nobody could have guessed from his stillness how fierce was the blood pressure at his temples. "It's a difference of opinion makes horse-races, Dug," said Bob lightly. The big ex-foreman rose snarling. "For half a cent I'd gun you here and now like you did George." Sanders looked at him steadily, his hands hanging loosely by his sides. "I wouldn't try that, Dug," warned Hart. "Dave ain't armed, but I am. My hand's on my six-shooter right this minute. Don't make a mistake." The ex-foreman glared at him. Doble was a strong, reckless devil of a fellow who feared neither God nor man. A primeval savagery burned in his blood, but like most "bad" men he had that vein of caution in his make-up which seeks to find its victim at disadvantage. He knew Hart too well to doubt his word. One cannot ride the range with a man year in, year out, without knowing whether the iron is in his arteries.