ing this, not an inflection of rudeness or threat. But Withers had lived a good while and learned something. He knew it was his sentence of death unless he resumed the pen and wrote what he was told to write. Withers's face was pale when he turned to write; the tremor of his body made a little rattling among the tin dishes near his hand.
"For value received," Tom repeated, pausing until he saw the words take shape on the paper, "I hereby assign and deliver to Tom Laylander"—slowly, waiting for the crudely-formed words to grow under the cowman's thick fingers—"all of my right, title and interest in the cattle herein described."
Tom took the paper from Withers and read it.
"That's all right, and there's your dollar," he said. "Sign it and give it to me."
"I'll write you anything, Tom; I'll sign anything you want," Withers said, regaining his poise again, now that he saw through what he believed to be the trick of a simpleton. "Where'll you take 'em to?" he asked, handing back the signed paper.
"I reckon I'll manage," Tom replied.
"Do you think I'll be settin' around while you're drivin' my cattle down to the Nation? Do you think you'll walk away with this piece of highway robbery? If you don't kick air between now and tomorrow night I miss my guess!"
"Colonel Withers, you're goin' to back up to that wagon wheel and straddle it, and stand there spread
