the wake of a boat in still water. After all, ranch life was a fine thing. A man must be the better for breathing such air; a man must be the wiser for living so close to good old Mother Earth; a man must be—hark! Was that Joe's pony galloping across the field? Lem turned. No; the pony was a strange one. And the rider?
Bub Quinn had leaped to the ground not ten feet from him. He had flung the rein over the neck of his steaming bronco; but he himself was as calm and as cool as though he had not ridden twenty miles before sunrise at a break-neck gallop.
"I've come to settle accounts with you, mister," Quinn remarked in a drawling voice.
If the fellow had raged and cursed, if he had seemed to be in a passion, if his fists had been clenched, or the muscles of his face set, it would not have been so appalling. But this deadly composure, the careless indifference with which he held his pistol in his right hand, while his left hung loosely at his side, was more than terrifying; it was fairly blood-curdling.
Lem's hands had let the reins drop, and the horses had gone plodding on, the plow lurching and swaying at their heels.
For an instant Lem's brain whirled.
