Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man of the outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance--whether real or imaginary, it made little difference--and that he was determined to force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state of affairs, knew that the reference to Randerson's inefficiency was a mere pretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed by Dorgan's word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaiting Randerson's reply. They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson's way to force trouble--that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. But could he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant to try, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips. "I reckon you're plumb excited--Owen wakin' you up out of your sleep like he did," said Randerson. "But," he added, the smile chilling a little, "I ain't askin' no man to work for me, if he ain't satisfied. You can draw your time tomorrow, if it don't suit you here." "I'm drawin' it now!" sneered the gunman. "I ain't workin' for no pussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin' around the country with a girl, makin' believe he's bossin', when--" Here he added something that made the outfit gasp and stiffen. As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to his gun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of the movement he shouted a warning: "Look out, Wrecks!" He had been afraid to tell Randerson that it was Kelso who was facing him, for fear that the information, bursting upon Randerson quickly, would disconcert him. But Randerson had been watching, understanding the drift of the gunman's words. And when he saw the shoulder of his gun-arm move, his own right hand dropped, surely, swiftly. Kelso's gun had snagged in its holster years before. It came freely enough now. But its glitter at his side was met by the roar and flame spurt of Randerson's heavy six, the thumb snap on the hammer telling of the lack of a trigger spring, the position of the weapon indicating that it had not been drawn from its holster. Apparently not a man in the outfit had noticed this odd performance, though they had been held with dumb astonishment over the rapidity with which it had been executed. But they saw the red, venomous streak split the night; they heard the gunman's gurgling gasp of amazement, and they watched, with ashen faces, while he dropped his weapon, sagged oddly forward and tumbled headlong into the sand near the fire. Then several of them sprang forward to drag him back. It had seemed that none of the men had noticed that Randerson had seemed to shoot his pistol while it was still in the holster. One, however, had noticed. It was Red Owen. And while the other men were pulling the gunman back from the fire, Owen stepped close to Randerson, lifted the holster, and examined it quickly. He dropped it, with a low exclamation of astonishment.