chance of my fire; then the big fingers relaxed, and the rifle fell clattering to the floor. To my surprise the fellow laughed.
"Well, I'll be damned!" he chortled, "you here?"
He threw back his head, and I recognized him—Jem Taylor, old Ned Cowan. I drew a quick breath, my teeth clinched, my arm steady. This encounter was going to prove no boy's play. But what was the man's game? Did he not know yet who I was? or what I knew about him? Before I could answer, his harsh voice spoke again.
"Put down yer pop-gun, boy, an' take it easy—the blame thing mout go off. I reckon as how we all hav'n't got nuthin' ter fight over, hav' we? How ther Sam Hill did yer ever git yere? "
"Now wait," I broke in coldly, determined to have a straight understanding. "I don't know what you are trying to pretend, but there is no friendship between us. You stand just where you are. I am not sure whether you know me, or not; but I know you, Ned Cowan I know what you did at Hot Springs, and how you took me along so as to make others believe I was guilty—"
"Shucks, lad; 'twas no more than a fair fight."
"It was cold-blooded murder, Cowan!" I exclaimed indignantly, "the culmination of a feud."
