country. The youth carried with him none of the earmarks of his
trade, unless it might be that quiet, steady gaze that seemed to
search the soul. His voice was soft and drawling, his manner
almost apologetic. In the smile that came and went was something
sweet and sunny, in his bearing a gay charm that did not
advertise the recklessness that bubbled from his daredevil
spirit. Surely here was an easy victim upon whom to vent his
spleen, thought the other in his growing passion.

"You want to be my target, do you?" he demanded, tugging
ferociously at his long mustache.

"If you please, seh."

The fellow swore a vile oath. "Just as you say. Line up beside
the other kid."

With three strides Bucky reached the wall, and turned.

"Let 'er go," his gentle voice murmured.

He was leaning back easily against the wall, his thumb hitched
carelessly in the revolver pocket of his worn leather chaps. He
looked at ease, every jaunty inch of him, but a big bronzed
cattleman who had just pushed his way in noticed that the frosty
blue eyes never released for an instant those of the enemy.

The bully at the table passed an uncertain hand over his face to
clear his blurred vision, poised the cruel blade in his hand, and
sent it flashing forward with incredible swiftness. The steel