"For two cents," said Blenham slowly, "I'd forget you're just a kid an' slap your face!" Barbee swept one of the fifty-cent pieces from the table and tossed it to the foreman. "You can keep the change out'n that," he said contemptuously. It was nothing new in the experience of Blenham, could be nothing unforeseen for any ranch foreman, to have his authority called into question, to have a rebellious spirit defy him. If he sought to remain master, the foreman's answer must be always the same. And promptly given. "Royce," said Blenham, his hesitation passed, "you're fired. Barbee, I'll take you on right now." Few-worded was Blenham, a trick learned from his master. Across the room Bill Royce had floundered at last to his feet, crying out mightily: "Hi! None o' that, Blenham. It's my fight, yours an' mine, with Barbee jus' buttin' in where he ain't asked. If you want trouble, take a man your size, full-grown. Blind as I am--and you know the how an' the why of it--I'm ready for you. Yes, ready an' anxious." Here was diversion and the men in the bunkhouse, drawing back against the walls, taking their chairs with them that there might be room for whatever went forward, gave their interest unstintedly. So completely that they did not hear Steve Packard singing far out in the night as he rode slowly toward the ranch-house: "An' I'd rather hear a kiote howl Than be the King of Rome! An' when day comes--if day does come-- By cripes, I'm goin' home! Back home! Hear me comin', boys? Yeee! I said it. Comin' home!" But in very brief time Steve Packard's loitering pace was exchanged for red-hot haste as the sounds winging outward from the bunk-house met him, stilled his singing, and informed him that men were battling in a fury which must have something of sheer blood-thirst in it. He raced to the closed door, swung down from the saddle, and threw the door open. He saw Bill Royce being held by two men, fighting at them while he reviled a man whom Steve guessed to be Blenham; he saw Blenham and a curly-haired, blue-eyed boy struggling up and down, striking the savage blows of rage. He came just in time to see Blenham drive a big, brutal fist into the boy's face and to mark how Barbee fell heavily and for a little lay still. The moment was charged with various emotions, as though with contending electrical currents. Bill Royce, championed by a man he had never so much as seen, had given fully of his gratitude and--they meant the same thing to Bill Royce--of his love; after to-night he'd go to hell for "yellow" Barbee. Barbee, previsioning defeat at Blenham's hard hand, suffering in his youthful pride, had given birth, deep within him, to an undying hatred. And Blenham, for his own reasons and after his own fashion, was bursting with rage. "Get up, Barbee," he yelled. "Get up an', so help me----"