“There's somethin' else, Al, I wanted to say,” began Dale, with hesitation. “An' it's about Beasley.”
Auchincloss started violently, and a flame of red shot into his face. Then he raised a big hand that shook. Dale saw in a flash how the old man's nerves had gone.
“Don't mention—thet—thet greaser—to me!” burst out the rancher. “It makes me see—red.... Dale, I ain't overlookin' that you spoke up fer me to-day—stood fer my side. Lem Harden told me. I was glad. An' thet's why—to-day—I forgot our old quarrel.... But not a word about thet sheep-thief—or I'll drive you off the place!”
“But, Al—be reasonable,” remonstrated Dale. “It's necessary thet I speak of—of Beasley.”
“It ain't. Not to me. I won't listen.”
“Reckon you'll have to, Al,” returned Dale. “Beasley's after your property. He's made a deal—”
“By Heaven! I know that!” shouted Auchincloss, tottering up, with his face now black-red. “Do you think thet's new to me? Shut up, Dale! I can't stand it.”
“But Al—there's worse,” went on Dale, hurriedly. “Worse! Your life's threatened—an' your niece, Helen—she's to be—”
“Shut up—an' clear out!” roared Auchincloss, waving his huge fists.
He seemed on the verge of a collapse as, shaking all over, he backed into the door. A few seconds of rage had transformed him into a pitiful old man.