It was some seconds before Drazk felt the blow. It came to him
gradually, like returning consciousness to a man who has been stunned.
Then anger swept him.

"You're playin' with me," he cried. "You're makin' a fool of me!"

"Oh, George dear, how could I?" she protested. "Now perhaps you better
run along to that Pete-horse. He looks lonely."

"All right," he said, striding away angrily. As he walked his rage
deepened, and he turned and shook his fist at her, shouting, "All right,
but I'll get you yet, see? You think you're smart, and Transley thinks
he's smart, but George Drazk is smarter than both of you, and he'll get
you yet."

She waved her hand complacently, but her composure had already maddened
him. He jerked his horse up roughly, threw himself into the saddle, and
set out at a hard gallop along the trail to the South Y.D.

It was mid-afternoon when he overtook Transley's outfit, now winding
down the southern slope of the tongue of foothills which divided the
two valleys of the Y.D. Pete, wet over the flanks, pulled up of his own
accord beside Linder's wagon.

"'Lo, George," said Linder. "What's your hurry?" Then, glancing at his
saddle, "Where's your blanket?"

Drazk's jaw dropped, but he had a quick wit, although an unbalanced one.

"Well, Lin, I clean forgot all about it," he admitted, with a laugh,