"My name is Kirby Lane."
"Nephew of the old man?"
"Yes."
Olson gave a snort of dry, splenetic laughter. "And you're out here sellin' registered Herefords."
"I have some for sale. But that's not why I came to see you."
"Why did you come, then?" asked the Scandinavian, his blue eyes hard and defiant.
"I wanted to have a look at the man who wrote the note to James Cunningham threatenin' to dry-gulch him if he ever came to Dry Valley again."
It was a center shot. Kirby was sure of it. He read it in the man's face before anger began to gather in it.
"I'm the man who wrote that letter, am I?" The lips of Olson were drawn back in a vicious snarl.
"You're the man."