“A fiddler in the Tomahawk,” said Priest. “Flung her fiddle and hit me in the hand. Oh, I was goin’ to kill him, Jack. Reber and his gang of cutthroats are runnin’ all the S\ Bar\ P cattle out of the valley.”
“I thought there was sort of a truce.”
“Truce!” Priest laughed shortly. “Reber sent me word that he’d quit if I would. I quit, Jack. But he didn’t. The only way I can ever make Park Reber quit is to kill him. Next time there won’t be any fiddle-throwin’ female present.”
Jack Silver laughed softly.
“You know what they think of me, Buck. I’m watched every minute by Reber’s men. Why, I can’t even kill a piece of fresh meat any more. They’re layin’ for a chance to kill me. Some day they’ll put up a job on me—and I’ll swing for it.
“Oh, they’re nice to my face—McLeese, Jim Carlin, Nort Jackson—all nice to my face. Behind my back they call me the dirty half-breed—the Injun rustler. I trap for a livin’, Buck. You know that. Reber hates me because I’m half Cheyenne.”
Buck Priest smiled crookedly, nodding slowly.
“There’s plenty of hate in this valley, Jack. I hope some day to see Park Reber suffer.”
“He ought to be half Injun,” said Silver bitterly. “That’s enough sufferin’ for one man. Last night he sent word to me by one of the Half-Wheel punchers to be at his place tonight.”
“He sent word to you?”