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 him flat. Tom Laylander was the last man he had expected to see in front of him that, day.

"All right, Tom," Withers yielded, swinging to the ground, where he stood turning a sly eye to see where Russius had put the guns, and to calculate the chance of putting the wagon between him and Laylander in a bold jump.

Russius was close by, breaking the pistols, ejecting the shells. He threw the belts and holsters under the wagon, and went around to the front to put the guns in another place.

Tom rode a little nearer to the tail of the wagon, handing down his fountain pen. He was watchful and cautious, ready for any kind of a trick Withers might try to throw.

"Put the day and the date on the back of that bill, and write what I tell you to," he directed. He took a silver dollar from his vest pocket and gave it to Withers, who looked at it with unfeigned surprise.

"What in the hell's that for?" Withers asked, flushing and affronted as if he had been made the object of some vulgar jest.

"Put down the day and the date," Tom directed again. "Now, go ahead and write this; For value received—"

"I'll be damned if I do!" said Withers.

"Colonel Withers, if you've got any word to leave, you can step off to one side and give it to one of these men," Tom said.

There was no bluster in Laylander's manner of say-