Entered then a tall, lean man with black hair, and a face the good looks of which were somewhat marred by a thin-lipped mouth and sharp, sinister eyes. But for all that Sam Blakely, the manager of the 88 ranch, was a very handsome man. He nodded to the three, his lips parting over white teeth, and asked Mike Flynn for a rope. "Here's yore cartridges, Tom," called Mike, and turned to the rear of the store. Loudon picked up his box of cartridges, stuffing them into a pocket in his chaps. "Let's irrigate," he said to Ramsay. "In a minute," replied his friend. "I want some cartridges my own self." The two sat down on the counter to wait. Blakely strolled across to the open boxes of neckties. "Cravats," he sneered, fingering them. "An' ---- fine ones!" exclaimed Mike Flynn, slamming down the coil of rope on the counter. "Thim yaller ones wit' vi'let spots now, yuh couldn't beat 'em in New York. An' the grand grane ones. Ain't they the little beauts? I just sold one to Tom Loudon." "Green shore does suit some people," said the 88 manager, coldly. Loudon felt Johnny Ramsay stiffen beside him. But Loudon merely smiled a slow, pleasant smile. "Hirin' any new men, Sam?" he inquired, softly, his right hand cuddling close to his belt. "What do yuh want to know for?" demanded Blakely, wheeling. "Why, yuh see, I was thinkin' o' quittin' the Bar S, an' I'd sort o' like to get with a good, progressive outfit, one that don't miss any chances." Loudon's voice was clear and incisive. Each word fell with the precision of a pebble falling into a well. Mike Flynn backed swiftly out of range. "What do yuh mean by that?" demanded Blakely, his gaze level. "What I said," replied Loudon, staring into the other's sinister black eyes. "I shore do hate to translate my words." For a long minute the two men gazed steadily at each other. Neither made a move. Blakely's hand hung at his side. Loudon's hand had not yet touched his gun-butt. But Blakely could not know that, for Loudon's crossed knees concealed the position of his hand. Loudon was giving Blakely an even chance. He knew that Blakely was quick on the draw, but he believed that he himself was quicker. Blakely evidently thought, so too, for suddenly he grunted and turned his back on Loudon. "What's that?" inquired Blakely, pointing a finger at one end of the rope. "What--oh, that!" exclaimed Mike. "Sure, that's what a seaman calls whippin'. The holdfast was missin', an' the rope was beginning' to unlay, so I whipped the end of it. 'Twill keep the rope from frayin' out, do yuh mind. An' it's the last rope I have in stock, too." Loudon, watching Blakely's hands, saw that what Mike Flynn called whipping was whip-cord lapped tightly a dozen turns or so round the end of the rope. Blakely, without another word, paid for the rope, picked it up, and departed, head high, sublimely indifferent to the presence of Loudon. Mike Flynn heaved a heartfelt sigh of relief.