"The way the story reached me, he didn't mention it until you had the
drop on him," answered Sanderson dryly.

"That's right," nodded the cattleman ironically, from the porch. "You're
the curly-haired hero, Keller, and I'm the red-headed villain of this
play. You want to beware of the miscreant, Miss Sanderson, or he'll sure
do you a meanness."

Tom Dixon eyed him frostily. "I expect you'll not do her any meanness,
Buck Weaver. From now on, you'll go one way and she'll go another.
You'll be strangers."

"You don't say!" Buck answered, looking him over derisively, as he
passed into the house. "You're crowing loud for your size. And don't you
bet heavy on that proposition, my friend."




CHAPTER XI

TOM DIXON


With whoops and a waving of caps boys burst out of one door, while girls
came out of the opposite one more demurely, but with the piping of gay
soprano voices. For school was out, and young America free of restraint
for eighteen hours at least. Resilient youth, like a coiled spring that
has been loosed, was off with a bound. Horses were saddled or put to
harness. The teacher came to the door, hand in hand with six-year-olds,