gret later," he warned. "I'm bear huntin'—got a pack of dogs out there somewhere, and they got away from me." He stepped one pace nearer. "And I want you to know I'm not expectin' any back talk from such as you. All I'd have to do was to say the word, and old Crowson would fire you in a minute."
"You're one of his friends, are you?" Hugh asked easily.
"He'll do what I say—don't you mind about that."
"Then perhaps"—Hugh struggled an instant and caught at a name that Alice had spoken—"you're José Mertos."
Fargo started—hardly perceptibly—and caught himself at once. "Do I look like a Mexican?" he demanded.
"Just a bit stout for a Mexican," Hugh went on appraisingly. He didn't know why, but a slow anger had begun to take hold of him. "Then maybe you're—Fargo."
"And what if I am?"
The eyes of the two men met, and Hugh saw the bulldog lips drawing back over the strong teeth. The lids half-dropped over his own eyes, and he stood as if deep in thought.
He had been a little afraid, at first. Even now he was not blind to the evident strength of the formidable body, the huge fists, the brutal jaws. Yet—he suddenly knew to his vast amazement—these things no longer mattered. In-
