"Calves?" he said. "What calves, my frien'?" He dropped his cards to the table and turned his chair around, leaning far back in it and hooking his right thumb in his cartridge belt, just above the holster of his pistol. "I theenk it mus' be mistak'." "Yes," returned Dakota, a slow, grimly humorous smile reaching his face, "it was a mistake. You made it, Blanca. Duncan found it out. Duncan took the calves--they belonged to him. You're going to pay for them." "I pay for heem?" The bland smile on Blanca's face had slowly faded with the realization that his victim was not to be further misled by him. In place of the smile his face now wore an expression of sneering contempt, and his black eyes had taken on a watchful glitter. He spoke slowly: "I pay for no calves, my frien'." "You'll pay," said Dakota, an ominously quiet drawl in his voice, "or----" "Or what?" Blanca showed his white teeth in a tigerish smirk. "This town ain't big enough for both of us," said Dakota, his eyes cold and alert as they watched Blanca's hand at his cartridge belt. "One of us will leave it by sundown. I reckon that's all." He deliberately turned his back on Blanca and walked to the door, stepping down into the street. Blanca looked after him, sneering. An instant later Blanca turned and smiled at his companions at the table. "It ain't my funeral," said one of the card players, "but if I was in your place I'd begin to think that me stayin' here was crowdin' the population of this town by one." Blanca's teeth gleamed. "My frien'," he said insinuatingly, "it's your deal." His smile grew. "Thees is a nize country," he continued. "I like it ver' much. I come back here to stay. Dakota--hees got the Star too cheap." He tapped his gun holster significantly. "To-night Dakota hees go somewhere else. To-morrow who takes the Star? You?" He pointed to each of the card players in turn. "You?" he questioned. "You take it?" He smiled at their negative signs. "Well, then, Blanca take it. Peste! Dakota give himself till sundown!" * * * * * The six-o'clock was an hour and thirty minutes late. For two hours Sheila Langford had been on the station platform awaiting its coming. For a full half hour she had stood at one corner of the platform straining her eyes to watch a thin skein of smoke that trailed off down the horizon, but which told her that the train was coming. It crawled slowly--like a huge serpent--over the wilderness of space, growing always larger, steaming its way through the golden sunshine of the afternoon, and after a time, with a grinding of brakes and the shrill hiss of escaping air, it drew alongside the station platform.