“No!”
“Shore is. I know him. But it ain't his hoss.... Say, he's hurryin'.”
Low exclamations of surprise and curiosity followed. Kells and his men looked attentively, but no one spoke. The clatter of hoofs on the stony road told of a horse swiftly approaching—pounding to a halt before the cabin.
“Handy!... Air you chased?... What's wrong?... You shore look pale round the gills.” These and other remarks were flung out the door.
“Where's Kells? Let me in,” replied Oliver, hoarsely.
The crowd jostled and split to admit the long, lean Oliver. He stalked straight toward Kells, till the table alone stood between them. He was gray of face, breathing hard, resolute and stern.
“Kells, I throwed—you—down!” he said, with outstretched hand. It was a gesture of self-condemnation and remorse.
“What of that?” demanded Kells, with his head leaping like the strike of an eagle.
“I'm takin' it back!”
Kells met the outstretched hand with his own and wrung it. “Handy, I never knew you to right—about—face. But I'm glad.... What's changed you so quickly?”