"Dave Leviatt. . . . One rather gets the impression that the stoop is a reflection of the man's nature, which seems vindictive and suggests a low cunning. His eyes are small, deep set, and glitter when he talks. But they are steady and cold--almost merciless. One's thoughts go instantly to the tiger. I shall try to create that impression in the reader's mind." And now as she looked at him she was sure that task would not be difficult. She had now an impression of him that seemed as though it had been seared into her mind. The eyes that she had thought merciless were now glittering malevolently, and she shuddered at the satyric upward curve of his lips as he stepped close to the rock and placed a hand upon the mass of manuscript lying there, that she had previously dropped, to prevent her leaving. "So you don't love me?" he sneered. "You don't even respect me. Why? Because you've taken a shine to that damned maverick that come here from Dry Bottom--Stafford's new stray-man!" "That is my business," she returned icily. "It sure is," he said, the words writhing venomously through his lips. "An' it's my business too. There ain't any damned----" He had glanced suddenly downward while he had been talking and his gaze rested upon an upturned page of the manuscript that lay beside him on the rock. He broke off speaking and reaching down took up the page, his eyes narrowing with interest. The page he had taken up was one from the first chapter and described in detail the shooting match in Dry Bottom. It was a truthful picture of what had actually happened. She had even used the real names of the characters. Leviatt saw a reference to the "Silver Dollar" saloon, to the loungers, to the stranger who had ridden up and who sat on his pony near the hitching rail, and who was called Ferguson. He saw his own name; read the story of how the stranger had eclipsed his feat by putting six bullets into the can. He dropped the page to the rock and looked up at Miss Radford with a short laugh. "So that's what you're writin'?" he sneered. "You're writin' somethin' that really happened. You're even writin' the real names an' tellin' how Stafford's stray-man butted in an' beat me shootin'. You knowin' this shows that him an' you has been travelin' pretty close together." For an instant Miss Radford forgot her anger. Her eyes snapped with a sudden interest. "Were you the man who hit the can five times?" she questioned, unable to conceal her eagerness. She saw a flush slowly mount to his face. Evidently he had said more than he had intended. "Well, if I am?" he returned, his lips writhing in a sneer. "Him beatin' me shootin' that way don't prove nothin'."