"By the cattlemen."
"I thought," Hawk spoke again contemptuously, "you meant by the sheriff."
"But I didn't," said Laramie. "I meant by the bunch at the range. And when they start they'll stir things up over this way."
Hawk hazarded a guess on another subject: "It looks like Van Horn—putting in Stone over at Doubleday's."
"It is Van Horn."
Hawk looked in silence out of the open door at the distant snow-capped mountains. "Why don't you kill him, Jim?" he asked after a moment, possibly in earnest, possibly in jest, for his iron tone sometimes meant everything, sometimes nothing.
Laramie, at all events, took the words lightly. He answered Hawk's question with another. But his retort and manner were as easy as Hawk's question and expression were hard. "Why don't you?"
The bearded man across the table did not hesitate nor did he cast about for words. On the contrary, he replied with embarrassing promptness: "I will, sometime."
"A man that didn't know you, Abe, might think you meant it," commented Laramie, filling his coffee cup.
Hawk's white teeth showed just for the instant that he smiled; then he talked of other things.