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 "I can't tell you, gentlemen, how much I appreciate your kind and noble spirit," said Laylander, warming up to his argument, which was a grave and earnest one to him, "but I can't allow you to put yourselves in danger for this little fool business of mine. You don't owe me anything, gentlemen; you don't owe me a thing."

"Get around behind that pile of ties, men," the conductor ordered, in calm, authoritative voice, assuming command by a sort of natural selection. "Duck so you can't be seen, and wait till I say go."

Laylander followed the crowd behind the long pile of oak ties, where no more than the top of his old white hat could have been seen by Withers if he had come charging down on the pens that moment.

Withers and his men were still in the saloon, trying to get out of the bartender, but with little success, the reason for the early morning alarm. Withers knew it could not have been to warn of his coming, for it had started to blow while he was a mile from town. The bartender said he hadn't been able to learn what the whistle had blown for, although he knew well enough. He was considering that there would be plenty of railroaders left to buy beer after the last cowman was gone from the Arkansas Valley range.

Almost two score bulldogs were out of pockets behind the pile of ties. There was a clicking of triggers, a whispering and loading. Ammunition was being passed from hand to hand with very serious and business-like intent; there was a constrained eagerness