"No--men wouldn't do that, I reckon. But a woman's different. They butt in for what they think's right, regardless. But I look at it like this, pardner: Dodd's a grown man and is packin' a hip gun. Why's he packin' it if he don't mean to use it? Only a kid ought to be excused from flourishin' iron like he did. He was just lettin' off steam. But he picked the wrong man to relieve himself on. If he'd 'a' killed Digger, as Miss Jessamy told him to, maybe he'd a hung for it. But he'd a had a chance with a jury. Where if he took his gat offen Digger Foss, it was sure death. I knew it; all of us knew it. And I knew he was goin' to lower it after he'd painted pictures in the air with it and thought he'd convinced all of us he was a bad man, and all that. He'd never pulled the trigger, and Digger Foss knew it." "Then if this Digger Foss knew he was only bluffing, he--why, he practically shot the man in cold blood!" cried Oliver. "Not practically but ab-so-lutely. Digger knew he was within the law, as they say. While he knew Dodd wouldn't shoot, no prosecutin' attorney can _prove_ that he knew it. Dodd had held a gun on him and threatened to kill 'im. When Digger gets the chance he takes it--makes his lightin' draw and kills Dodd. On the face of it it's self-defence, pure and simple, and Digger'll be acquitted. He'll be in tonight and give himself up to the constable. He knows just where he stands." Oliver's informant tossed off his liquor. "And Miss Jessamy knew all this--see?" he continued. "She savvies gunmen. She ought to, bein' a Selden. At least she calls herself a Selden, but her right name's Lomax. Old Man Selden married a widow, and this girl's her daughter. Well, she rides in and tells Dodd to shoot. She knew it was his life or Digger's, after he'd made that crack. But the poor fool!--Well, you saw what happened. Don't belong about here, do you, pardner?" "I do now," Oliver returned. "I'm just moving in, as it were. I own forty acres down on Clinker Creek. I came in here to inquire the way, and stumbled onto this tragedy." "On Clinker Creek! What forty?" "It's called the Old Tabor Ivison Place." "Heavens above! You own the Old Tabor Ivison Place?" "So the recorder's office says--or ought to." For fully ten seconds the big fellow faced Oliver, his blue eyes studying him carefully, appraisingly. "Well, by thunder!" he muttered at last. "Tell me about it, pardner. My name's Damon Tamroy." "Mine is Oliver Drew," said Oliver, offering his hand. "Well, I'll be damned!" ejaculated Tamroy in a low voice, his eyes, wide with curiosity, devouring Oliver. "The Old Ivison Place!" "You seem surprised." "Surprised! Hump! Say--le'me tell you right here, pardner; don't _you_ ever pull a gun on any o' the Poison Oakers and act like Henry Dodd did. Maybe it's well you saw what was pulled off today--if you'll only remember when you get down there on the Tabor Ivison Place." CHAPTER II PETER DREW'S LAST MESSAGE