It was the spring round up and there were fifteen outfits in camp within two miles of North Platte, and the round up would begin as soon as two more outfits arrived.
The news of the plan and chance of fate by which Rawlins was to lose his life had spread from one camp-fire to another during the night, and created an intense excitement.
Rawlins was standing by the fire, when I. P. Olive, one of the largest owners on the range, rode up.
“Look here, Rawlins, suppose you had won, would you shoot Anderson down like a dog this morning?”
“Certainly I would,” he replied, “and he would not be the first dog I have killed, either.”
“This thing cannot go on,” said Olive, decisively. “If you men have got to kill each other you must do it in a civilized fashion. Your plan is too cold-blooded; it has given the shivers to the entire camp.” He then rode over to the “Double Bar” camp, where Anderson lay sleeping.
“Get up from there, you wild ass of the plains,” he shouted. “Rawlins is waiting to be killed. Are you going to do it?”
Anderson was on his feet in an instant, facing Olive in the dim light of the camp-fire.
“It is none of your business what I intend to do!” and his yellow eyes gleamed dangerously as his hand stole to the handle of his sixshooter. Olive was a dangerous man himself and had a record of killing four men in Texas. He saw danger in the manner he had approached Anderson, and using a more conciliatory tone, said:
“Give Rawlins a show for his life and we will all think the more of you for it.”