“Red! Hold on!” cried Neale.
It was Larry. One look at him blanched Neale’s face.
“Everybody sit still an’ let me talk,” drawled Larry, with the cool, reckless manner that now seemed so deadly.
No one moved, and the silence grew unnatural. The cowboy advanced a few strides. His eyes, with a singular piercing intentness, were bent upon Allison Lee, yet seemed to hold all the others in sight. He held one gun in direct alignment with Lee, low down, and with the other he rapped on the table. The gasp that went up from round that table proved that some one saw the guns were both cocked.
“Did I understand you to say Neale lied aboot them surveyin’ figgers?” he queried, gently.
Allison Lee turned as white as a corpse. The cowboy radiated some dominating force, but the chill in his voice was terrible. It meant that life was nothing to him—nor death. What was the U. P. R. to him, or its directors, or its commissioners, or the law? There was no law in that wild camp but the law in his hands. And he knew it.
“Did you say my pard lied?” he repeated.
Allison Lee struggled and choked over a halting, “No.”
The cowboy backed away, slowly, carefully, with soft steps, and he faced the others as he moved.
“I reckon thet’s aboot all,” he said, and, slipping into the crowd, he was gone.