"You—"
"Certainly, I—"
That was all. It was not a lengthy conversation, or a brilliant one, but it was adequate. Face to face, the two men stood looking in each other's eyes, each taking his opponent's measure. Hough had also risen; he expected bloodshed; but not once did Blair stir as much as an eyelid, and after that first step Sidwell also halted. Beneath his supercilious caste dominance he was a physical coward, and at the supreme test he weakened. The flood of anger passed as swiftly as it had come, leaving him impotent. He stood for a moment, and then the clenched fist dropped to his side.
For the first time, Ben Blair moved. Unemotionally as before, his nod indicated the chair in the corner.
"Sit over there as long as I stay, Alec," he directed; and the negro responded with the alacrity of a well-trained dog.
Ben turned to the big man. "And you, too, Hough. My business has nothing to do with you, but it may be well to have a witness. Be seated, please."
Hough obeyed in silence. Sober as Sidwell now, his mind grasped the situation, and in spite of himself he felt his sympathy going out to this masterful plainsman.
Ben Blair now turned to the host, and as he did so his wiry figure underwent a transformation that lived long in the spectators' minds. With his old characteristic motion, his hands went into his trousers' pockets, his chest expanded, his great chin lifted until, looking down, his eyes were half closed.
"You, Mr. Sidwell," he said, "can stand or sit, as you please; but one thing I warn you not to do—don't lie to me. We're in the home of lies just now, but it can't help you. Your face says you are used to having your own way, right or wrong. Now you'll know the reverse. So long as you speak the truth, I won't hurt you, no matter what you say. If you don't, and believe in God, you'd best make your peace with Him. Do you doubt that?"
One glance only Sidwell raised to the towering face, and his eyes fell. Every trace of fight, of effrontery, had left him, and he dropped weakly into his chair.