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 tions. You know me, and you know who's with me."

"We've come to talk over old times with you, Henry—away back old times."

In spite of his stolidity Stott's face changed at Fannie's first word. He jumped to his feet, revolver in hand.

"Get to hell out of here!" he ordered.

"You'd better put down that gun, Henry," Fannie cautioned with reproachful scorn.

"You can't come in here and work any of your blackmail on me!"

"Sir, we're not even goin' to try it."

Texas had drawn back a step from the railing. He stood with his hand on his gun, every muscle of his body set.

"Get to hell out of here!" Stott repeated, his revolver lifted as if to fire a signal. Texas made a little motion of caution, an eloquent command of restraint, with his left hand, the other on his pistolstock.

"Put down that gun, sir!" he ordered. "We're not intendin' to rob you—we're after a settlement of another kind."

Stott was purple in the congestion of rage and fright. His moment had gone, and he seemed to realize it, for the weapon in his hand wavered. He made an indecisive movement as if to put it down,