brella trees, taking on their new foliage, he saw Allen examining the Apache's shoes. As he neared them, the horse pulled away from the man, his suddenly lowered hoof striking Allen's instep. With an oath the fellow stepped back and swung a vicious kick to the animal's belly. Almost simultaneously a hand fell heavily upon his shoulder. He was jerked roughly back, whirled about, and sent spinning a dozen feet away, where he stumbled and fell. As he scrambled to his feet, white with rage, he saw the younger Pennington before him.
"Go to the office and get your time," ordered Pennington.
"I'll get you first, you son of a——"
A hard fist connecting suddenly with his chin put a painful period to his sentence before it was completed, and stopped his mad rush.
"I'd be more careful of my conversation, Allen, if I were you," said Pennington quietly. "Just because you've been drinking is no excuse for that. Now go on up to the office, as I told you to."
He had caught the odor of whisky as he jerked the man past him.
"You goin' to can me for drinkin'—you?" demanded Allen.
"You know what I'm canning you for. You know that's the one thing that don't go on Ganado. You ought to get what you gave the Apache, and you'd better beat it before I lose my temper and give it to you!"
The man rose slowly to his feet. In his mind he was revolving his chances of successfully renewing his attack; but presently his judgment got the better of his desire and his rage. He moved off slowly up the hill toward the house. A few yards, and he turned.
"I ain't a goin' to ferget this, you—you——"
"Be careful!" Pennington admonished.
"Nor you ain't goin' to ferget it, neither, you fox-trottin' dude!"
