sight of Sheridan's face, eager to listen and to see—not to mix in. Hollister found himself jammed in, sandwiched between the roan and the sorrel; he felt the knee of Sheridan against the hollow of his own, the same on Jackson's side. For all the fire of the whisky he was suddenly a little chill.
"Hollister," said Sheridan, "you are a parasite, a predatory parasite. I'll translate that into a word of one syllable so you can't mistake what I mean. You're a louse. You live in dirt and, when you happen to be where it is clean, you show up all the stronger for the vermin you are. You mention those ladies again, here, anywhere, at any time or place where I may hear of it, and you'll do no more talking."
"Some of yore fancy gun-play, eh?" Hollister strove to hold his voice at the right note of jeering repartee.
"If I ever come to settling matters with you, Hollister, I hope it will not be with my gun. I'd prefer to handle you."
"That same goin' double," interjected Jackson.
"You're brave, two to one, ain't you?"
"It isn't two to one, Hollister," went on Sheridan. "There isn't a cowman on my ranch, on all the mesa, but is backing me in this, once they knew of it. We are getting tired of your sort on Chico Mesa, Hollister. Some day we may start in to clean house. But this is between you and me, right now. You keep a polite tongue in your head or—" he caught at the reins as Hollister tried to get ahead. Red copying his action on the other side, holding the brute
