LITMIR.BIZ

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day of Hollis’s arrival in Dry Bottom. Hollis’s eyes flashed, but the man was several feet from him and out of reach of his fists. Had Hollis been standing he would have had no chance to reach the man before the latter could have made use of his weapon. Therefore Hollis remained motionless in his chair, catching the man’s gaze and holding it steadily with unwavering, narrowed eyes.

      Though he had waited for the coming of Ten Spot, he had formulated no plan of action; he had felt that somehow he would come out of the clash with him without injury. He still thought so. In spite of his danger he felt that some chance of escape would be offered him. Grimly confident of this he smiled at the man, though still holding his gaze, determined, if he saw the faintest flicker of decision in his eyes, to duck and tackle him regardless of consequences.

      “I suppose you are Ten Spot?” he said slowly. He was surprised at the steadiness of his voice.

      The man grinned, his eyes alert, shifty, filled with a chilling menace. “You’ve got her right, tenderfoot,” he said; “‘Ten Spot’s’ m’ handle, an’ if you’re a-feelin’ like criticizin’ of her do her some rapid before I starts dealin’ out the lead which is in my pritty.”

      Just how one man could be so entirely remorseless as to shoot another when that other man was looking straight into his eyes Hollis could not understand. He could readily realize how a man could kill when provoked to anger, or when brooding over an injury. But he had done nothing to Ten Spot–did not even know him–had never seen him before, and how Ten Spot could deliberately shoot him–without provocation–was incomprehensible. He was convinced that in order to shoot, Ten Spot must work himself into an artificial rage, and he believed that the vile epithet which Ten Spot had applied to him immediately upon his entrance must be part of his scheme. He was convinced that had he shown the slightest resentment over the application of the epithet Ten Spot would have shot him down at once. Therefore he resolved to give the man no opportunity to work himself into a rage. He smiled again as Ten Spot concluded and carelessly twisted himself about in his chair until he was in a position to make a quick spring.

      “‘Ten Spot’ is a picturesque name,” he remarked quietly, not removing his gaze from Ten Spot’s eyes for the slightest fraction of a second; “I have no criticism to make. I have always made it a point to refrain from criticizing my visitors. At least I do not recollect ever having criticized a visitor who carried a gun,” he concluded with a smile.

      Ten Spot’s lips curled sarcastically. Apparently he would not swerve in his determination to provoke trouble.

      “Hell,” he said truculently, “that there palaver makes me sick. I reckon you’re too damn white livered to criticize a man that’s lookin’ at you. There ain’t no tenderfoot (here he applied the unprintable epithet again) got nerve enough to criticize nothin’!”

      Hollis slowly raised his hands and placed them on the arms of his chair, apparently to steady himself, but in reality to be ready to project himself out of the chair in case he could discern any indication of action on Ten Spot’s part.

      “Ten Spot,” he said in a low, even, well controlled voice, conciliatory, but filled with a manliness which no man could mistake, “at four o’clock this afternoon I heard that you and Yuma Ed were framing up your present visit. I am not telling who gave me the information,” he added as he saw Ten Spot’s eyes brighten, “but that is what happened. So you see I know what you have come for. You have come to kill me. Is that correct?”

      Ten Spot’s eyes narrowed–into them had come an appraising, speculative glint. He nodded. “You’ve got her right,” he admitted gruffly. “But if you knowed why didn’t you slope?” He looked at Hollis with a half sneer, as though unable to decide whether Hollis was a brave man or merely a fool.

      Hollis saw the indecision in Ten Spot’s eyes and his own brightened. At last he had planned a form of action and he cooly estimated the distance between himself and Ten Spot. While Hollis had been speaking Ten Spot had taken a step forward and he was now not over four or five feet distant. Into Ten Spot’s eyes had come an amused, disdainful gleam; Hollis’s quiet, argumentative attitude had disarmed him. This was exactly what Hollis had been waiting for.

      Ten Spot seemed almost to have forgotten his weapon; it had sagged, the muzzle pointing downward–the man’s mind had become temporarily diverted from his purpose. When he saw Hollis move suddenly forward he remembered his gun and tried to swing its muzzle upward, but it was too late. Hollis had lunged forward, his left hand closing on Ten Spot’s right wrist, his right fist reaching Ten Spot’s jaw in a full, sweeping, crashing uppercut.

      The would-be killer did not have even time enough to pull the trigger of his six-shooter. It fell from his hand and thudded dully to the floor as his knees doubled under him and he collapsed in an inert, motionless heap near the door.

      With a grim smile on his face Hollis picked up Ten Spot’s weapon and placed it on the desk. For an instant he stood at the window, looking out into the street. Down near the Fashion he saw some men–Yuma Ed among them. No doubt they were waiting the sound of the pistol shot which would tell them that Ten Spot had disposed of Hollis. Hollis grinned widely–Yuma and his gang were due for a surprise. For perhaps a minute Hollis stood beside the desk, watching Ten Spot. Then when the latter’s hands began to twitch and a trace of color appeared in his face, Hollis pulled out his own revolver and approached him, standing within a few feet of him and looking down at him.

      There was no mark on Ten Spot’s jaw to show where Hollis’s blow had landed, for his fist had struck flush on the point, its force directed upward. Ten Spot’s mouth had been open at the instant and the snapping of his teeth from the impact of the blow no doubt had much to do with his long period of unconsciousness.

      He stirred presently and then with an effort sat up and looked at his conqueror with a glance of puzzled wonderment. Seeing Hollis’s weapon and his own on the desk, the light of past events seemed to filter into his bewildered brain. He grinned owlishly, felt of his jaw and then bowed his head, a flush of shame overspreading his face.

      “Herd-rode!” he said dismally. “Herd-rode, an’ by a tenderfoot! Oh, Lordy!” He suddenly looked up at Hollis, his eyes flashing with rage and defiance.

      “Damn your hide, why don’t you shoot?” he demanded. He placed his hands, palm down, on the floor, preparatory to rising, but ceased his efforts when he heard Hollis’s voice, coldly humorous:

      “I shall shoot you just the instant you get to your feet. I rather think that I am running things here now.”

      Ten Spot sagged back and looked up at him. “Why I reckon you are,” he said. No method of action having suggested itself to him, he continued to sit, watching Hollis narrowly.

      The latter retreated to his chair and dropped into it, moving deliberately. When he spoke his voice was cold and metallic.

      “When you first came into the office,” he said, “you applied a vile epithet to me. Once after that you did it again. You have asked me why I don’t shoot you. If you really want me to shoot you you can keep your mouth closed for just one minute. If you want to continue to live you can tell me that you didn’t mean a word of what you said on those two occasions. It’s up to you.” He sat silent, looking steadily at Ten Spot.

      The latter fidgeted, shame again reddening his cheeks. “Why,” he said finally, “I reckon she don’t go, tenderfoot. You see, she’s only a noma de ploom which we uses when we wants to rile somebody. I cert’nly didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

      “Thanks,” drawled Hollis dryly; “I’ll call that sufficient. But you certainly did ‘rile’ me some.”

      “I reckon I must have done just that,” grinned Ten Spot ruefully. “You’re shorely some she-wolf with them there claws of your’n. An’ I done laffed at Dunlavey an’ Yuma after you’d clawed them.” His face sobered, his eyes suddenly filling with an expression of defiant resignation.

      “I reckon when you’re done triflin’ with me you c’n start to pumpin’ your lead,” he said. “There ain’t no use

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