“Now, now, Moran, one at a time,” said the big man. “You’ll get your chance. Go ahead, young fellow. You’ve made your statements; now back them up—or git.” “First,” said Jim, “this company needs the Le Bar tract. Is that not so?” “You bet we do,” said the big man. “Moran has had a chance to buy—at a reasonable figure—and has refused even to deal. I have an option on that timber. Because I have it, because he is after my scalp, he won’t deal. You’ve tried to buy of Le Bar for half a dozen years. That’s charge number one.” “His price was exorbitant. It was a hold-up,” Moran shouted. “You have never asked a price. I have never put a price on the land—to you or to anybody else. Next, he has done all in his power to cripple the Ashe Clothespin Company, which is your most valuable single asset. He’s been bought up by the Clothespin Club. First he hired a man to cripple our machinery; another of his men filled our logs with spikes for us to saw into. His railroad has withheld cars for our shipments. These acts he has done as president of this concern. Is it pleasant to you gentlemen that your president, in your own woods, should spike your own logs and ship them to a valuable customer? These things I am in position to prove. He refused to carry out the terms of this company’s contract, would not give us logs, so I had to avail myself of the permission of the contract to seize and operate your logging machinery. And, finally, last night, by his orders, property of this company was destroyed by fire. Michael Moran burned Crab Creek Trestle. This I can prove.” “It’s an infernal lie!” Moran shouted. “There, there,” said the big man. “If Mr. Ashe is lying we’ll see you have satisfaction. Just prove the burning of the trestle; well let the other matters go for another day.” Zaanan went to the door and called. Steve Gilders came in, rifle under his arm, pushing another individual before him. “Here’s your proof,” said Zaanan, dryly. “Go ahead, Steve.” “This here feller,” said Steve, “burned the trestle last night. Soaked her with oil and touched her off. Then he took a shot at Mr. Ashe there—and thought he’d got him. Calc’late he thought so till this minnit, for he hain’t heard nothin’ to the contrary. Now, Kowterski, I seen you. Who told you to burn that there trestle?” “He did,” said Kowterski, pointing to Moran. Moran sprang toward Kowterski, but Gilders shifted his rifle. “Don’t go prancin’ round. I guess you know I wouldn’t grieve none if I was forced to hurt you, Moran.”