“Yes, I hear you.” McCoy looked at him hard. One could have gathered no impression of weakness from the lean brown face of the cattleman. The blue-gray eyes were direct and steely. Power lay in the packed muscles of the stocky frame. Confidence rested in the set of the broad shoulders and the poise of the close-cropped head. “I didn’t write that letter to you, and I don’t know who did. But I’ll give you a piece of advice. Keep your sheep on the other side of the dead line. They’ll maybe live longer.” The sheepman shook a fist at him furiously. “That’s a threat, McCoy. Don’t you back it. Don’t you dare lift a finger to my sheep. I’ll run them where I please. I’ll bring ’em right up to the door of the Circle Diamond, too, if it suits me.” A young ranchman lounging in the doorway cut into the talk. “I reckon you can bring ’em there, Joe, but I ain’t so sure you could take ’em away again.” “Who’d stop me?” demanded Tait, whirling on him. “Would it be you, Jack Cole?” “I might be there, and I might not. You never can tell.” Tait took a step toward him. The undisciplined temper of the man was boiling up. He had for nearly two days been drinking heavily. “Might as well settle this now—the sooner the quicker,” he said thickly. Sharply McCoy spoke: “We’re none of us armed, Tait. Don’t make a mistake.” The sheep owner threw his revolver on the counter. “I don’t need any gun to settle any business I’ve got with Jack Cole.” “Don’t you start anything here, Joe Tait,” ordered the postmistress in a shrill voice. She ran out from her cage and confronted the big man indomitably. “You can’t bully _me_. I’m the United States Government when I’m in this room. Don’t you forget it, either.” A shadow darkened the doorway, and a young woman came into the store. She stopped, surprised, aware that she had interrupted a scene. Her soft dark eyes passed from one to another, asking information. There was an awkward silence. The sheepman turned with a half-suppressed oath, snatched up his weapon, thrust it into the holster, and strode from the room. Yet a moment, and the thudding of hoofs could be heard. The postmistress turned in explanation to the girl. “It’s Joe Tait. He’s always trying to raise a rookus, that man is. But he can’t bully me, no matter how bad an actor he is. I’m not his wife.” She walked around the counter and resumed a dry manner of business. “Do you want all the mail for the Elkhorn Lodge or just your own?” “I’ll take it all, Mrs. Stovall.” The young woman handed through the cage opening a canvas bag, into which papers and letters were stuffed. “Three letters for you, Miss Trovillion,” the older woman said, sliding them across to her. “You’re good to me to-day.” The girl thanked her with a quick smile. “I notice I’m good to you most days,” Mrs. Stovall replied with friendly sarcasm.