"And what might you be doing in this part of
the country?"
Jimmie Kent's voice was as pleasant as Swinnerton's had been.
"Maybe you remember how you did me up in the matter of the Bolton town
lots, Mr. Swinnerton? Well, I am just sticking around for the fun of
seeing some one do you up."
Mr. Swinnerton's chuckle was softer, oilier than before. He smiled
upon Kent as though the sandy-haired man were in truth the apple of
his eye.
"Always up to your little repartee, ain't you, Jimmie? Well, well! And
now, Mr. Conniston--Jimmie, you'll pardon us?--may I have a word in
private with you?"
"No," Conniston flared out, "you may not! I don't know you, Mr.
Swinnerton, and I don't want to."
Only a something akin to the hurt surprise of a child in voice and
look alike as Swinnerton queried softly:
"No? Pray, why not? What have I done, Mr. Conniston?"
"You have proven yourself a scoundrel!" burst out Conniston, angrily.
"A fair fight in the open is one thing. Such cowardly means as you
take to gain your ends is another. And if you will turn your horses
and drive back off of Crawford territory I'll be glad to see the back
of you."
For a moment Swinnerton stared at him in stupefaction. And then he
broke into a delighted giggle which drove the tears into his eyes.
Jimmie Kent looked from one to the other, and then, whistling softly
to himself and saying no word, rode on down the road.
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