“Go and cool off,” he advised dispassionately. “You old vulture, you can’t scream any louder than the Eagle. You, too, Jess,” he added, turning harshly upon his half-brother. “You’re a pretty good man when it comes to swinging a single-jack, but you’re a damn poor hand at thinking! This thing is away beyond your depth. You can’t holler the government down. Get out!” Young Jess blustered and threatened still, flailing his fists and mouthing oaths. “That’s about all from you,” grated Rawley, stung to action by some vile threat against the government. “Is, hey?” Young Jess advanced upon him. Then Rawley went for him, the blue eyes of the Kings gone black with fury. The fight, if it could be called that, was short and undramatic. No tables were overturned, no glass was shattered. Young Jess aimed a sledge blow at Rawley, got one on the jaw that spun him so that he faced the other way, and Rawley forthwith kicked him off the porch. Young Jess rooted gravel, looked over his shoulder and saw Rawley coming at him again, and started off on all fours. When he regained his feet he went away, blathering blasphemy. He was going for his gun,--so he said. Peter stood looking after Young Jess, his brows pulled together. A slim figure slipped past him and went straight to Rawley, who was pulling at his tie, which had gone crooked. She was pale, breathless with the fear that looked out of her big eyes. “Oh, you must go--_now_,” she breathed, clasping her two hands around his arm. “You think he’s just like any other bully, all bluster. He’ll kill you, just as sure as you stand here. Grandfather, too. Uncle Jess will shoot you in the back--oh, _anyway_! He’s the worst of the Indian blood; once you rouse him, there’s _nothing_ he’ll stop at! Get him away, Uncle Peter! It isn’t brave, to stay and be killed. It’s the worst kind of cowardice; the kind that is afraid to show itself. Uncle Peter!” “We’re going, Nevada. I know Young Jess. A rattlesnake’s a prince alongside him when he’s mad. Son, you should have left him to me. I can handle him pretty well, no matter how mad he gets. Come along; he’ll not be above potting you from ambush, Injun style.” He left the porch at the farther end, pulling Rawley after him; and much as Rawley hated the thought of retreat, he was forced to believe that Nevada and Peter, neither of them timid souls, must know what they were talking about. Nevada disappeared, with no word of farewell to Rawley. Young Jess could be plainly heard bawling at Gladys because his “shells” had been misplaced. Peter chuckled. “One of the kids shot himself through the hat, a month or so ago,” he explained his amusement. “Since then the guns are kept unloaded. Jess is hunting cartridges; God bless Gladys for a poor housekeeper!” He still held a firm grip on Rawley’s arm, leading him down the path to the river. But suddenly, keeping an ear cocked toward the sounds behind him, he swung away from the trail toward the bluffs.