In the silence one might have heard a watch tick, Doble leaned forward, his body rigid, danger written large in his burning eyes and clenched fist.
"So you're back," he said at last in a low, harsh voice.
"I'm back."
"It would 'a' pleased me if they had put a rope round yore neck, Mr.
Convict."
Dave made no comment. Nobody could have guessed from his stillness how fierce was the blood pressure at his temples.
"It's a difference of opinion makes horse-races, Dug," said Bob lightly.
The big ex-foreman rose snarling. "For half a cent I'd gun you here and now like you did George."
Sanders looked at him steadily, his hands hanging loosely by his sides.
"I wouldn't try that, Dug," warned Hart. "Dave ain't armed, but I am. My hand's on my six-shooter right this minute. Don't make a mistake."
The ex-foreman glared at him. Doble was a strong, reckless devil of a fellow who feared neither God nor man. A primeval savagery burned in his blood, but like most "bad" men he had that vein of caution in his make-up which seeks to find its victim at disadvantage. He knew Hart too well to doubt his word. One cannot ride the range with a man year in, year out, without knowing whether the iron is in his arteries.