Tug did not dodge this covert threat. He dragged it into the open. “What could happen to me now we’re safe out of the storm, Mr. Prowers?” The skim-milk eyes did not change expression, but there seemed to lie back of them the jeer of mockery. “Why, ’most anything. We eat canned tomatoes for supper, say--an’ you get lead poisonin’. I’ve known real healthy-lookin’ folks fall asleep an’ never wake up.” “Yes. That’s true,” Hollister agreed, an odd sinking in the pit of his stomach. “And I’ve seen murderers who could have passed a first-class life insurance examination quit living very suddenly. The other day I read a piece about a scoundrel in Mexico who had killed two or three people. He rather had the habit. When he shot another in the back, his neighbors rode to his ranch one night and hanged him to his own wagon tongue.” “I always did say Mexico was no place for a white man to live,” the old fellow piped amiably. “Well, I expect you boys are hungry, buckin’ this blizzard. What say to some dinner?” “Good enough. No canned tomatoes, though, if you please.” Once more Hollister and Prowers measured eyes before the cattleman grinned evilly. “Glad you mentioned it. I was aimin’ to have tomatoes,” he said. CHAPTER XXIV “COME ON, YOU DAMN BUSHWHACKER” The fury of the storm rattled the window panes. Down the chimney came the shrill whistle of the gale. The light of day broke dimly through the heavy clouds that swept above the gulch from peak to peak. Two of the men sitting at dinner in the cabin watched each other intently if covertly. The third, dog-tired, nodded over the food he rushed voraciously to his mouth. “Gonna pound my ear,” Cig announced as soon as he had finished eating. He threw himself on a bunk and inside of five minutes was snoring. Tug, too, wanted to sleep. The desire of it grew on him with the passing hours. Overtaxed nature demanded a chance to recuperate. Instead, the young man drank strong coffee. Jake Prowers’s shrill little voice asked mildly, with the hint of a cackle in it, if he was not tired. “In the middle of the day?” answered Tug, stifling a yawn. “Glad you ain’t. You ’n’ me’ll be comp’ny for each other. Storm’s peterin’ out, looks like.” “Yes,” agreed the guest. It was. Except for occasional gusts, the wind had died away. Tug considered the possibility of leaving before night fell. But if he left, where could he go in the gathering darkness? Would Prowers let him walk safely away? Or would a declaration of his intention to go bring an immediate showdown? Even so, better fight the thing out now, while he was awake and Cig asleep, than wait until he slipped into drowsiness that would give the little spider-man his chance to strike and kill. Tug had no longer any doubt of his host’s intention. Under a thin disguise he saw the horrible purpose riding every word and look. It would be soon now. Why not choose his own time and try to get the break of the draw?