"Declarin' yoreself in on this, are you?" he demanded ominously, showing his teeth.
"I've always been in on it, Dug. Took a hand at the first deal, the day of the race. If you're lookin' for trouble with Dave, you'll find it goes double."
"Not able to play his own hand, eh?"
"Not when you've got a six-shooter and he hasn't. Not after he has just been wounded by another gunman he cleaned up with his bare hands. You and yore friends are lookin' for things too easy."
"Easy, hell! I'll fight you and him both, with or without guns. Any time.
Any place."
Doble backed away till his figure grew vague in the darkness. Came the crack of a revolver. A bullet tore a splinter from the wall of the shack in front of which Dave was standing. A jeering laugh floated to the two men, carried on the light night breeze.
Bob whipped out his revolver, but he did not fire. He and his friend slipped quietly to the far end of the house and found shelter round the corner.
"Ain't that like Dug, the damned double-crosser?" whispered Bob. "I reckon he didn't try awful hard to hit you. Just sent his compliments kinda casual to show good-will."
"I reckon he didn't try very hard to miss me either," said Dave dryly.
"The bullet came within a foot of my head."
"He's one bad citizen, if you ask me," admitted Hart, without reluctance. "Know how he came to break with the old man? He had the nerve to start beauin' Miss Joyce. She wouldn't have it a minute. He stayed right with it—tried to ride over her. Crawford took a hand and kicked him out. Since then Dug has been one bitter enemy of the old man."