“They had their eyes on me to see what I was a doin’ in Velpen. And I was a doin’ things, too.” Langford gave a long, low whistle of comprehension. That would explain the unexpected waiving of examination. Jesse Black knew the steer had been recovered and saw the futility of fighting against his being bound over. “Now, ain’t she a hummer?” insisted Jim, admiringly, but added slightingly, “Homely, though, as all git-out. Mouse-hair. Plumb homely.” “On the contrary, I think she is plumb pretty,” retorted Langford, a laugh in his blue eyes. Jim fairly gasped with chagrin. Unconcerned, grinning, Black slouched to the door and out. Once straighten out that lazy-looking body and you would have a big man in Jesse Black. Yes, a big one and a quick one, too, maybe. The crowd made way for him unconsciously. No one jostled him. He was a marked man from that day. His lawyer, Small, leaned back in his chair, radiating waves of self-satisfaction as though he had but just gained a disputed point. It was a manner he affected when not on the floor in a frenzy of words and muscular action. Jim Munson contrived to pass close by Jake Sanderson. “So you followed me to find out about Mag, did you? Heap o’ good it did you! We knew you knew,” he bragged, insultingly. The man’s face went white with wrath. “Damn you!” he cried. His hand dropped to his belt. The two glared at each other like fighting cocks. Men crowded around, suddenly aware that a quarrel was on. “The Three Bars’s a gittin’ busy!” jeered Jim. “Come, Jim, I want you.” It was Gordon’s quiet voice. He laid a restraining hand on Munson’s over-zealous arm. “Dick Gordon, this ain’t your put-in,” snarled Sanderson. “Git out the way!” He shoved him roughly aside. “Now, snappin’ turtle,” to Jim, “the Three Bars’d better git busy!” A feint at a blow, a clever little twist of the feet, and Munson sprawled on the floor, men pressing back to give him the full force of the fall. They believed in fair play. But Jim, uncowed, was up with the nimbleness of a monkey. “Hit away!” he cried, tauntingly. “I know ’nough to swear out a warrant ’gainst you! ’T won’t be so lonesome for Jesse now breakin’ stones over to Sioux Falls.” “Jim!” It was Gordon’s quiet, authoritative voice once more. “I told you I wanted you.” He threw his arm over the belligerent’s shoulder. “Comin’, Dick. I didn’t mean to blab so much,” Jim answered, contritely. They moved away. Sanderson followed them up. “Dick Gordon,” he said with cool deliberateness, “you’re too damned anxious to stick your nose into other people’s affairs. Learn your lesson, will you? My favorite stunt is to teach meddlers how to mind their own business,—this way.” It was not a fair blow. Gordon doubled up with the force of the punch in his stomach. In a moment all was confusion. Men drew their pistols. It looked as if there was to be a free-for-all fight. Langford sprang to his friend’s aid, using his fists with plentiful freedom in his haste to get to him.