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 being about two feet wide at the top, at the bottom a point—at a desperate disadvantage, in a cramped, mean place for quick work.

Both men were armed, something Simpson had not been certain of before they entered the mare's stall. They went lazily to the animal's head, luckily on the side of her opposite Simpson, Noah taking her by the nose-hold common to horsemen, turning her head for a look at her eye. The mare resented the treatment; she began to squirm and back away. Noah, cursing her lights and livers, ducked under her neck to get the light on her face and, head below the top of the manger, dived into Tom Simpson crouching in the shadow.

Before Noah could squawk, Simpson laid him a blow across the flat of the head with his heavy gun, plunging it with a quick jab into Dan's belly as he leaned to inquire if that double-damned mare had struck Noah with her foot. Noah was flat on the ground, and Simpson was up as quick as a bent sapling.

"Keep still!" he growled, boring the gun hard into Dan's vitals.

Dan had his hands aloft, not knowing any more than the next man what was coming, or what had happened even then. That was the safe posture for a gentleman of Dan's profession; it was habitual with him from long practice. Simpson jerked the gun from Dan's holster and stuck it under his own belly-band.

"I don't want to kill you—but one squeal!" he warned.

It had come, and there was nothing for it but to go the limit, work fast and make the best of it. Noah appeared to be out for the moment; he was lying limber