LITMIR.BIZ

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      "Don't like to hear you make insinuations," muttered Wolfert. "I have done my level best to cater to Box M. You got no call to say I ain't reasonable thataway."

      "Charterhouse is under Box M protection," stated Nickum bluntly. "Your warrant is just a piece of paper, nothing more. Wouldn't advise you to draw it on him today or any other time."

      "You're sure leaving me in a bad place, John. What'll Shander say?"

      "Let him cook up another lie better'n this one. It's so rotten it stinks."

      "That ain't for the to say," was Wolfert's surly response. "I ain't the judge."

      Charterhouse stepped carefully away from the bar and pointed through the door. "What's the gentleman's name who's so polite as to ride my horse to town?"

      "Graney, by golly," muttered Seastrom. And dead silence fell over the room. Graney rode into the saloon rack and slid idly to the ground. The black hide of Charterhouse's mount glistened under the sun and the silver corners of the fine acorn leaf saddle flashed brilliantly.

      Charterhouse turned back to the group, graven-cheeked. His skin crawled with the shock of electric excitement; for the second time he found himself trying to penetrate Nero Studd's poker expression. Of the whole party, Haggerty alone seemed to display honest surprise. The foreman shifted uneasily, looking from the door back to Nickum and thence to Studd. Seastrom was rubbing the palms of his hands along the bar, producing a small squeaking sound that seemed to irritate both Haggerty and Wolfert. Both of them glowered at Seastrom, whereupon he laughed and broke the tension.

      "Your horse?" challenged Nickum.

      "Mine," drawled Charterhouse.

      Graney had turned away from the rack and was walking off. Charterhouse, without haste, strolled out of the door and hailed the man, feeling the others come crowding after him.

      "Just a minute, partner. You've got a piece of nice horseflesh there."

      Graney whirled, almost too swiftly. Charterhouse's elbows crooked and stopped. Graney threw his own hands wide of his hips and growled, "Sure I have, and what of it?"

      It was a pretty raw rig, Charterhouse reflected. A pretty crude way to bring on a scrap. Looking at the profusely sweating Graney, he wondered just how the cards lay. A man had popped into sight by the stable; and the men behind him were shifting. He wanted to turn and see where Studd and Wolfert were standing but didn't dare.

      "Naturally," went on Charterhouse, slurring the words, "you've got a bill of sale for this gear?"

      "Correct. I take a receipt for my money. If you stick around Casabella very long, you'll get that habit, too."

      "A-huh. Well, let's see this bill of sale."

      "What for?" demanded Graney, coming closer.

      "You know the answer as well as I do," murmured Charterhouse. "But in order to play up to your game, I'll mention this is my horse and rig."

      "Might have been. Ain't now."

      "Beg to differ."

      Graney went into his coat pocket and affected to have trouble finding a slip of paper that he finally flourished. Charterhouse took it and saw a formal bill of sale from one Ramon de Rio, signed with considerable of a flourish.

      "Yeah. Legal and everything," drawled Charterhouse. "Who is this Ramon de Rio?"

      Seastrom's amused reply cut over Charterhouse's shoulder. "That one, huh? Well, Beef, you sure picked a good one. Ramon's dead up in the rocks of Red Draw. He missed his shot at Nickum."

      Charterhouse felt the effect of that statement. It audibly disturbed those back of him. Beef Graney dashed the sweat out of his eyes with a round oath. "What's that got to do with me? I paid for that horse. Yeah, I know it used to be yours, Charterhouse. Ramon bought it from you in town yesterday."

      "Oh, you've got it worked out that complete?" said Charterhouse. "Too bad. It ain't the true facts, even if Ramon said so, which I'm inclined some to doubt."

      "Be careful of your words," Graney warned him. "You'll stand accountable for them."

      "Willing to," averred Charterhouse. "Now the next move seems to be up to me. Which I will make, according to rule. This is my horse. It always was, and it always will be. You've had your little ride in a white man's saddle and that's all you'll get."

      "Stay away from that horse, Charterhouse!"

      "Boys," broke in Wolfert. "I'll have no shooting around Angels. Take your troubles to the judge."

      "Very noble," applauded Charterhouse. "Sorry I can't look around to congratulate your sentiments. Mister Graney, I intend to step slowly back to the horse, take the reins, and step aboard."

      "When you touch the ribbons, you'll have to draw!" snapped Graney and tried again to clear the sweat out of his eyes. Charterhouse took a backward pace and halted. A rider came posting into Angels from the east, kicking up a high cloud of plaza dust. He cut across to the saloon and sprang down before the pony had completely stopped—Buck Manners. He showed his usual cheerful manner, but it was instantly repressed at sight of Graney and Charterhouse confronting each other so cagily.

      "Now what?"

      "A little dicker about horses," called Nickum. "Stay aside, Buck."

      Manners scanned the plaza with a quick glance. "Listen, why fight? Let's get these fellows to talk it over and come to a peaceful—"

      "Stay aside, Buck," repeated Nickum gruffly. "I'm waiting to see if a yellow dog will actually fight in the open. Get off your horse before somebody takes you for a target."

      Manners stared at Graney. "You sure that's your horse, Beef?"

      "I said it," retorted Graney, "and I ain't backing down now."

      "All right. No objections from me. A free and open fight. Leave 'em alone, everybody." There was a rising ring of authority in his words. "Get out of range, Wolfert, you dummy."

      "Say, Manners—"

      "Shut up. If it's going to be a fight, I'll help see it's on the level."

      "You touch that horse, Charterhouse," repeated Graney, furrows of worry coming to his forehead, "and you take a slug."

      Charterhouse stepped deliberately back and whipped the dangling reins with his left hand, letting them drop the following instant. He had called Graney's bluff and across the interval he saw the heavy fellow's face, dripping wet, swing slowly from side to side, containing a mixture of puzzlement and anger. Quite obviously he had missed the fighting moment; during the delay he appeared to be struggling with unforeseen circumstances and trying to adjust himself to them. The crowd stood rooted, without a sound; Charterhouse never let his attention stray. Graney's eyes burned against him, increasingly intent, and Graney's body was pitched a little forward as if ready to send all his muscles into a mighty effort. Then Buck Manners laughed outright and said ironically, "Somebody get a camera and snap this comic opera. Charterhouse—"

      Charterhouse turned his head slightly to catch Manners' face. Graney moved. His palm slapped against leather in the utter stillness. His rounding body plunged aside with the lift and explosion of his gun. Charterhouse, never moving out of his tracks, worked with the smoothness of an automatic machine and hardly was conscious of his draw until the smash of his own revolver beat against him and his wrist kicked back with the weapon's recoil. Graney stiffened, all his chubby face beaded in big globes of sweat; a leer of pain stamped his lips, but there was again the roar of a shot, and as the echo of it rocketed away into the droning heat of Angels, Graney emitted a cracked, forlorn cry and dropped straight down. Charter-house heard him mutter, "Manners!" and that was all.

      The tendrils of gun smoke eddied into Charterhouse's nostrils. Swinging toward Manners he spoke in a dry, distant voice that seemed not his own. "Was you aiming to take my attention away from Graney when he was about to draw?"

      Manners stared

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