“No use goin’ down there now, Harp,” he said. “We’ve been spotted. Mostano is no fool. My visit to his place warned him that we might be dangerous; so he’s watchin’ for us. I’m bettin’ that he sees everybody that comes over Big Elk grade. Next time we won’t play the game to suit him, and he’s goin’ to be a sorry half-breed. Let’s go home.” “Do you think he had anythin’ to do with the shootin’ of Soapy?” asked Harp. “Prob’ly not. Mostano is a meat thief, Harp.” “Well, what has meat thieves got to do with all this dirty work?” demanded Harp. “Oh, I don’t know,” Brick yawned and swung his horse around. “I’ve just got a fool idea, tha’sall. C’mon.” * * * * * “And I’m here to state that Brick Davidson is jist about all through bein’ sheriff of this county.” Ike Welden, driver of the Redrock stage, hooked his prominent shoulder-blades over the top of the Dollar Down bar and spat viciously. Ike was a sallow-complexioned young man, with wry-neck, tobacco-stained chin and very bony wrists. Ike had little imagination, which made him dangerous. Danger had little terrors for him, because his mind was of the single-track variety, and his future did not extend beyond the next meal time. Just now he was rather drunk and inclined to be quarrelsome. His thin waist-line sagged sidewise under the drag of the heavy, holstered gun on his thigh, as though weakening under the strain. There was a motley crew in the Dollar Down, but only one of them, Silent Slade, paid any attention to Ike’s remark. Silent was standing beside a poker table, watching the play, but now he considered Ike Welden closely. Several of the men were from Silverton, who had come to Marlin City upon receipt of news regarding Soapy Caswell. Leach was in the poker game, as was Al Hendricks. Santel was tilted back in a bar-room chair, seemingly paying little attention to anyone. Banty Harrison and Slim Hunter were engrossed in a game of pool, while several others stood around the table and offered advice. “And I know ——ed well what I’m talkin’ about,” declared Welden loudly. Hank Stagg came into the room, nodded to everyone who paid him any heed, and went to the bar. “Ain’t I right, Hank?” queried Ike. “I dunno what yo’re talkin’ about, but I’ll bet yuh are,” laughed Hank. “Have a drink?” “I can’t refuse,” grinned Ike widely. “I’m a he-buzzard and I’m soarin’ strong. I jist said that Brick Davidson is all through in this county, Hank. Nobody had guts enough to say that I was wrong. No, I don’t want no water with mine. I’m a he-buzzard. Here’s how.” A moment later Ike squealed like a rabbit. As he lifted his glass of liquor, a strong hand grasped his collar, while another gathered up the slack of his pants. He twisted his head enough to see that Silent Slade was behind him, and then he was lifted bodily, carried to the door and cast out into the street.