Ned Pullar stood straight and immense, a muscular figure in overalls and smock. His fresh, youthful face looked almost innocently from under the peak of his cap. His eyes were serious for an instant, then released an amused smile.
"Rob McClure!" he said quietly. "You are developing an interesting humour. Three times to-day you have flaunted this trifling wager in my face. It means nothing to me—nothing more than do you yourself, Robbie, mon, or your engaging gang."
The mocking tone provoked a swift change in McClure. His eyes narrowed to slits that gleamed evilly. The rush of passion rendered him impotently mute. Backing their boss with yells of rage the gang moved menacingly toward the speaker. Suddenly above the foul oaths rang out a voice. It was one of the outsiders who had slipped unnoticed to the door. With his hand on the knob he called out:
"Hold 'em, Ned. I'll fetch the Valley Outfit mighty quick."
There was a rush toward him, but he dashed out of the door and away.
Then followed an instant move toward the solitary and defiant figure of the Valley boss.
"Halt! You drunken dogs!" cried Pullar in a voice that effected his purpose.
Pausing, the crowd eyed their quarry cautiously, warned by the terrible flame leaping from the eyes where but a moment before glimmered a whimsical smile. Holding his pipe to his lips with a match ready to light, he addressed them quietly.
"I was getting ready," said he, "to hit the trail for The Craggs when McClure worked himself up over this bet. I'm not interested in his little gamble. But I am tolerable anxious over the important matter of hiking along home to milk the cows. I'm going to pass out that door and I'd hate to hustle any of you fellows unnecessarily."
He took a step toward them. There was an involuntary movement to retreat. Pullar laughed and the threshers, with wild yells, rushed at their prey. Above the clamour rose the bull-like roar of McClure.