At last the smile changed on Whispering Smith's face. It lighted his eyes still, but with a different expression. "See here, Rebstock, you and I have always got along, haven't we? I've no desire to crowd any man to the wall that is a man. Now I am going to tell you the simple truth. Du Sang has got you scared to death. That man is a faker, Rebstock. Because he kills men right and left without any provocation, you think he is dangerous. He isn't; there are a dozen men in the Cache just as good with a gun as Du Sang is. Don't shake your head. I know what I'm talking about. He is a jay with a gun, and you may tell him I said so; do you hear? Tell him to come out if he wants me to demonstrate it. He has got everybody, including you, scared to death. Now, I say, don't be silly. I want Du Sang." Rebstock rose to his feet solemnly and pointed his finger at Whispering Smith. "Whispering Smith, you know me--" "I know you for a fat rascal." "That's all right. You know me, and, just as you say, we always get along because we both got sense." "You're hiding yours to-day, Rebstock." "No matter; I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll give you all the horseflesh you can kill and all the men you can hire to go after him, and I'll bury your dead myself. You think he can't shoot? I give you a tip on the square." Whispering Smith snorted. "He'll shoot the four buttons off your coat in four shots." Smith kicked Rebstock's dog contemptuously. "And do it while you are falling down. I've seen him do it," persisted Rebstock, moist with perspiration. "I'm not looking for a chance to go against a sure thing; I wash my hands of the job."