"Yes, Monday," she had answered. And then, dully: "I have waited, too." Masten was thinking of this exchange of words as he rode past the ford where the Lazette trail crossed into the broken country beyond it. He had not liked the tone of her voice when she had answered him; she had not seemed enthusiastic enough to suit him. But he did not feel very greatly disturbed over her manner, for Monday would end it, and then he would do as he pleased. He was passing a huge boulder, when from out of the shadow surrounding it a somber figure stepped, the star-shot sky shedding sufficient light for Masten to distinguish its face. He recognized Randerson, and he voluntarily brought his pony to a halt and stiffened in the saddle, fear, cold and paralyzing, gripping him. He did not speak; he made no sound beyond a quick gasp as his surprised lungs sought air, and he was incapable of action. Randerson, though, did not make a hostile movement and did not present a foreboding figure. His arms were folded over his chest, and if it had not been for Masten's recollection of those grim words, "I'll go gunnin' for you," Masten would have felt reasonably secure. But he remembered the words, and his voice caught in his throat and would not come, when he essayed to bluster and ask Randerson the cause for this strange and dramatic appearance. But there was no thought of the dramatic in Randerson's mind as he stood there--nothing but cold hatred and determination--nothing except a bitter wish that the man on the pony would reach for his gun and thus make his task easier for him. The hoped-for movement did not come, and Randerson spoke shortly: "Get off your cayuse!" Masten obeyed silently, his knees shaking under him. Was it to be another fist fight? Randerson's voice broke in on this thought: "I promised to kill you. You're a thing that sneaks around at night on its belly, an' you ought to be killed. But I'm goin' to give you a chance--like you give me when you set Kelso on me. That'll let you die like a man--which you ain't!" He tapped the gun at his right hip. "I'll use this one. We'll stand close--where we are--to make your chance better. When I count three you draw your gun. Show your man now, if there's any in you!" He dropped his hands from his chest and held the right, the fingers bent like the talons of a bird of prey, about to seize a victim. He waited, his eyes gleaming in the starlight, with cold alertness for Masten's expected move toward his gun. But after a long, breathless silence, during which Masten's knees threatened to give way, he leaned forward. "Flash it! Quick! Or you go out anyway!" "I'm unarmed!" Masten's voice would not come before. It burst forth now, hysterically, gaspingly, sounding more like a moan than the cry of a man pleading for his life.