"A—a what?"
"A cow thief, a rustler, a sport who ain't particular whose cows he brands."
"You lie!"
"Yuh'll find out in time I'm tellin' the truth. I guess now I know more about Sam Blakely than you do, an' I tell yuh he's a rustler."
"Kate! Oh, Kate!" called a voice outside.
Kate sped through the doorway. Loudon, his lips set in a straight line, followed her quickly. There, not five yards from the kitchen door, Sam Blakely sat his horse. The eyes of the 88 manager went from Kate to Loudon and back to Kate.
"What's the excitement?" inquired Blakely, easily.
Kate levelled her forefinger at Loudon.
"He says," she gulped, "he says you're a rustler."
Blakely's hand swept downward. His six-shooter had barely cleared the edge of the holster when Loudon's gun flashed from the hip, and Blakely's weapon spun through the air and fell ten feet distant.