Jake shook his lean head and his jaw bulged. He might have been haranguing, cowboy-like, for the benefit of the man they feigned not to notice, but it was plain, nevertheless, that he was angry. "What gits me wuss 'n them I.W.W.'s is the skunks thet give Uncle Sam the double-cross," said Andy, with dark face. "I'll stand fer any man an' respect him if he's aboveboard an' makes his fight in the open. But them coyotes thet live off the land an' pretend to be American when they ain't--they make me pisen mad." "I heerd the vigilantes has marked men like thet," observed Bill. "I'll give you a hunch, fellers," replied Jake, grimly. "By Gawd! the West won't stand fer traitors!" All the way to "Many Waters," where it was possible to talk and be heard, the cowboys continued in like strain. And not until the driver halted the car before Anderson's door did they manifest any awareness of Neuman. "Git out an' come in," said Jake to the pallid, sweating rancher. He led Neuman into the hall and knocked upon Anderson's study door. It was opened by Dorn. "Wal, hyar we are," announced Jake, and his very nonchalance attested to pride. Anderson was standing beside his desk. He started, and his hand flashed back significantly as he sighted his rival and enemy. "No gun-play, boss, was your orders," said Jake. "An' Neuman ain't packin' no gun." It was plain that Anderson made a great effort at restraint. But he failed. And perhaps the realization that he could not kill this man liberated his passion. Then the two big ranchers faced each other--Neuman livid and shaking, Anderson black as a thunder-cloud. "Neuman, you hatched up a plot with Glidden to kill me," said Anderson, bitterly. Neuman, in hoarse, brief answer, denied it. "Sure! Deny it. What do we care? ... We've got you, Neuman," burst out Anderson, his heavy voice ringing with passion. "But it's not your low-down plot thet's r'iled me. There's been a good many men who've tried to do away with me. I've outplayed you in many a deal. So your personal hate for me doesn't count. I'm sore--an' you an' me can't live in the same place, because you're a damned traitor. You've lived here for twenty years. You've grown rich off the country. An' you'd sell us to your rotten Germany. What I think of you for that I'm goin' to tell you." Anderson paused to take a deep breath. Then he began to curse Neuman. All the rough years of his frontier life, as well as the quieter ones of his ranching days, found expression in the swift, thunderous roll of his terrible scorn. Every vile name that had ever been used by cowboy, outlaw, gambler, leaped to Anderson's stinging tongue. All the keen, hard epithets common to the modern day he flung into Neuman's face. And he ended with a profanity that was as individual in character as its delivery was intense. "I'm callin' you for my own relief," he concluded, "an' not that I expect to get under your hide."