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enough, but there was a smoldering impudence in his eyes. He had a mischievous look about him, but maybe that was because of what was happening. Webb looked from him up to the man who had just entered. Webb had seen this man outside, but the stranger said, “Why, howdy.”
    Webb nodded and resumed his eating.
    â€œBuck brought him home,” the innocent-looking puncher continued. “He’s a guest of the county.”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œWell, prisoner, I reckon. He stuck up the bank at Wagon Mound this mornin’. Buck brought him home to stuff.”
    â€œWell, well,” Stoop said, elaborately interested. “Ain’t no one told him about the private dinin’ room?”
    â€œHuh-uh. He was too hungry.”
    â€œReckon I’d better?” Stoop continued, walking around the table.
    â€œI wouldn’t know,” his partner retorted.
    Stoop stopped behind Webb. “All the county guests is fed in the private dinin’ room, mister. That there”—he indicated an upended cartridge case in the corner beside a rickety chair—“is it. You’ll notice that window beside it is barred. That’s because we like to make the county’s guests plumb at home.”
    â€œA little drafty,” Webb drawled, and returned to his food. All the hands, including McCaslon, had stopped eating and were watching Webb.
    â€œHe’s delicate,” the man said. “That’s why they wouldn’t lock him up in town.”
    â€œWell, now,” Stoop said mildly. “So am I. That’s why they ain’t locked me up. That’s why I don’t aim to eat in the private dinin’ room.” He paused. “Fella, you’re in the wrong pew. Move out!”
    â€œI like it here,” Webb said mildly.
    Stoop reached out, seized Webb’s collar, and yanked back. Webb came out flying, twisted in mid-air, and as soon as his foot was planted behind the bench, arched a tight hook into Stoop’s belly. The result was automatic. Stoop folded up like a jackknife, sat down, put both hands across his stomach, and retched audibly for air.
    Webb looked around the table and murmured, “The flies are bad in here,” and sat down and resumed his eating. No one said a word.
    When Stoop stopped his gagging and dragged himself to his feet, Webb turned to him. “Do you like it that way, or with a little salt on it, friend?”
    Stoop glared at him a long moment, then said softly, “We ain’t finished with each other, fella.” He walked to the foot of the table, turned up a plate, and demanded food in a surly tone. Webb looked over at the chunky puncher, who was observing him with curious good humor.
    â€œPass Stoop the blood,” Webb drawled to him. “Take a bucket of it for yourself as it goes by.”
    The impudent puncher grinned, and it was with friendliness this time. “I’ll do that,” he said, “and I’ll take mine without salt, too.”
    The meal was finished in silence, and Webb knew that for the present he would be let alone. When he had rolled and lighted a cigarette, McCaslon, who had observed all that went on with the same poker face and eyes which had grown increasingly thoughtful, said, “Come along,” and rose.
    Webb followed him out into the night.
    McCaslon paused out of earshot of the bunkhouse. “That’s a good way to get shot in the back.”
    â€œI thought of that, too,” Webb answered.
    â€œA man with more sense would have taken it a mite slower.”
    â€œNow you know that ain’t true,” Webb said mildly, but positively.
    McCaslon turned. “I reckon I do,” he said, and started for the house. Ahead of them they saw the front door open and a figure step inside. McCaslon grunted.

CHAPTER FIVE
    They entered the office at the side of the house. It was a small cubbyhole affair holding an untidy desk, a pile of boots and slickers and