Reber smiled slowly, and Slim went out. * * * * * The S Bar P ranchhouse and other buildings were of log construction, rambling old structures one story in height. The ranchhouse and bunk-house had the old mud-and-stone fire-places. Back of the stables was Porcupine Creek, which ran northwest to Tomahawk River. It was about six miles from the ranch to Tomahawk town. It was the day after Reber had sent the message to his foremen when Jack Silver rode in at the S Bar P ranch. He rode a tall black gelding, a fitting mount for a man of his physique. Silver was tall, lithe, dark-skinned. He wore his hair long, but his face was smooth-shaven. His shirt was black, as were his muffler and sombrero, and he wore no chaps. His high-heeled boots were of the short-topped Southwest style, and around his waist was a hand-made cartridge belt supporting a Colt gun in a hand-made holster. He swung off his horse, waving a greeting to three of Buck Priest’s men who were down near the corrals. Priest met him at the door of the ranchhouse and they shook hands warmly. “How are yuh, Jack?” asked Priest, as they sat down in the main room of the ranchhouse. “I’m fine,” replied Silver. “Been over in Clear Valley for a week and just got back. Ran into Dave McLeese yesterday and he told me about you and Reber havin’ a fight.” Priest scowled heavily and slapped the palm of his right hand on his knee. “I tried to kill him, Jack. A girl ruined the shot.” Silver smiled, showing a flash of white, even teeth. “A girl, eh? McLeese didn’t tell me about her.” “A fiddler in the Tomahawk,” said Priest. “Flung her fiddle and hit me in the hand. Oh, I was goin’ to kill him, Jack. Reber and his gang of cutthroats are runnin’ all the S Bar P cattle out of the valley.” “I thought there was sort of a truce.” “Truce!” Priest laughed shortly. “Reber sent me word that he’d quit if I would. I quit, Jack. But he didn’t. The only way I can ever make Park Reber quit is to kill him. Next time there won’t be any fiddle-throwin’ female present.” Jack Silver laughed softly. “You know what they think of me, Buck. I’m watched every minute by Reber’s men. Why, I can’t even kill a piece of fresh meat any more. They’re layin’ for a chance to kill me. Some day they’ll put up a job on me--and I’ll swing for it. “Oh, they’re nice to my face--McLeese, Jim Carlin, Nort Jackson--all nice to my face. Behind my back they call me the dirty half-breed--the Injun rustler. I trap for a livin’, Buck. You know that. Reber hates me because I’m half Cheyenne.” Buck Priest smiled crookedly, nodding slowly. “There’s plenty of hate in this valley, Jack. I hope some day to see Park Reber suffer.” “He ought to be half Injun,” said Silver bitterly. “That’s enough sufferin’ for one man. Last night he sent word to me by one of the Half-Wheel punchers to be at his place tonight.” “He sent word to you?” “Yeah.” “Wants to trap yuh, eh?”