"Peck Maguire told me, an' I shut his dirty mouth for him. But now I
know it's true. You're ridin' with the pilgrim's girl."

At the inference the Texan whitened to the eyes. "_You're a damned
liar_!" The words came evenly but with a peculiar venom.

Curt half drew his gun. Then jammed it back in the holster. "Not
between friends," he said shortly, "but jest the same you're goin' to
eat them words. It ain't a trick I'd think of you--to run off with a
man's woman after killin' him. If he was alive it would be different.
I'd ort to shoot it out with you, I suppose, but I can't quite forget
that time in Zortman when you----"

"Don't let that bother you," broke in the Texan with the same evenness
of tone. "_You're a damned liar_!"

With a bound the man was upon him and Tex saw a blinding flash of
light, and the next moment he was scrambling from the ground. After
that the fight waxed fast and furious, each man giving and receiving
blows that landed with a force that jarred and rocked. Then, the Texan
landed heavily upon the point of his opponent's chin and the latter
sank limp to the floor of the coulee. For a full minute Tex stood
looking down at his victim.

"Curt can scrap like the devil. I'm sure glad he didn't force no gun
play, I'd have hated to hurt him." He recovered the flask from the
ground where the other had dropped it, and forced some whiskey between
his lips. Presently the man opened his eyes.

"Feelin' better?" asked the Texan as Curt blinked up at him.