Nevertheless, Meldrum had the humiliating sense that he had failed to live up to his reputation as a killer.  He had promised Battle Butte to give it something to talk about, but he had not meant to let the whisper pass that he was a four-flusher.  His natural recourse was to further libations.  These made for a sullen, ingrowing rage as the day grew older.

More than one well-meaning citizen carried to Roy the superfluous warning that Meldrum was in town and drinking hard.  The young man thanked them quietly without comment.  His reticence gave the impression of strength.

But Beaudry felt far from easy in mind.  A good deal of water had flowed under the Big Creek bridge since the time when he had looked under the bed at nights for burglars.  He had schooled himself not to yield to the impulses of his rabbit heart, but the unexpected clatter of hoofs still set his pulses a-flutter.  Why had fate snatched so gentle a youth from his law desk and flung him into such turbid waters to sink or swim?  All he had asked was peace—­friends, books, a quiet life.  By some ironic quirk be found himself in scenes of battle and turmoil.  As the son of John Beaudry he was expected to show an unflawed nerve, whereas his eager desire was to run away and hide.

He resisted the first panicky incitement to fly back to the Lazy Double D, and went doggedly about the business that had brought him to Battle Butte.  Roy had come to meet a cattle-buyer from Denver and the man had wired that he would be in on the next train.  Meanwhile Beaudry had to see the blacksmith, the feed-store manager, the station agent, and several others.

This kept him so busy that he reached the Station only just in time to meet the incoming train.  He introduced himself to the buyer, captured his suitcase, and turned to lead the way to the rig.

Meldrum lurched forward to intercept him.  “Shus’ a moment.”

Roy went white.  He knew the crisis was upon him.  The right hand of the hillman was hidden under the breast of his coat.  Even the cattle-buyer from Denver knew what was in that hand and edged toward the train.  For this ruffian was plainly working himself into a rage sufficient to launch murder.

“Yore father railroaded me to the penitentiary—­cooked up testimony against me.  You bust me with a club when I wasn’t looking.  Here’s where I git even.  See?”

The imminence of tragedy had swept the space about them empty of people.  Roy knew with a sinking heart that it was between him and the hillman to settle this alone.  He had been caught with the suitcase in his right hand, so that he was practically trapped unarmed.  Before he could draw his revolver, Meldrum would be pumping lead.

Two months ago under similar circumstances terror had paralyzed Roy’s thinking power.  Now his brain functioned in spite of his fear.  He was shaken to the center of his being, but he was not in panic.  Immediately he set himself to play the poor cards he found in his hand.