"What I want to know—" broke in Terry Jordan.
"Go to hell with your questions," said Silent, "but until you go there you'll do what I say, understand?"
"Look here, Jim," said Hal Purvis, "are you a king an' we jest your slaves, maybe?"
"You're goin' it a pile too hard," said Shorty Rhinehart.
Every one of these speeches came sharply out while they glared at Jim Silent. Hands were beginning to fall to the hip and fingers were curving stiffly as if for the draw. Silent leaned his broad shoulders against the side of his roan and folded his arms. His eyes went round the circle slowly, lingering an instant on each face. Under that cold stare they grew uneasy. To Shorty Rhinehart it became necessary to push back his hat and scratch his forehead. Terry Jordan found a mysterious business with his bandana. Every one of them had occasion to raise his hand from the neighbourhood of his six-shooter. Silent smiled.
"A fine, hard crew you are," he said sarcastically at last. "A great bunch of lone riders, lettin' a slip of a yaller-haired girl make fools of you. You over there—you, Shorty Rhinehart, you'd cut the throat of a man that looked crosswise at the Cumberland
