During the months that Ferguson had worked at the Two Diamond, Stafford had not seen him as he looked at this moment. Never, during the many times the manager had seen him, had he been able to guess anything of the stray-man's emotions by looking at his face. Now, however, there had come a change. In the set, tightly drawn lips were the tell-tale signs of an utterable resolve. In the narrowed, steady eyes was a light that chilled Stafford like a cold breeze in the heat of a summer's day. In the man's whole body was something that shocked the manager into silence.
He came into the room, standing near the door, his set lips moving a very little, "You heard anything from Leviatt yet?" he questioned.
"Why, yes," returned Stafford, hesitatingly; "he was here, talkin' to me. Ain't been gone more'n half an hour. I reckon he's somewhere around now."
"You talkin' to him, you say?" said the stray-man slowly. He smiled mirthlessly. "I reckon you told him about them missin' calves?"
"I sure did!" returned Stafford with much vehemence. He laughed harshly. "I told him more," he said; "I told him you was goin' to show me the man who'd rustled them."
Ferguson's lips wreathed into a grim smile. "So you told him?" he said. "I was expectin' you'd do that, if he got in before me. That's why I stopped in here. That was somethin' which I was wantin' him to know. I don't want it to be said that I didn't give him a chance."
Stafford rose from his chair, taking a step toward the stray-man.
"Why, what——?" he began. But a look at the stray-man's face silenced him.
"I've come over here to-day to show you that rustler I told you about yesterday. I'm goin' to look for him now. If he ain't sloped I reckon you'll see him pretty soon."
Leviatt stepped down from the door of the manager's office and strode slowly toward the bunkhouse. On the way he passed several of the men, but he paid no attention to them, his face wearing an evil expression, his eyes glittering venomously.