lot of us couldn't if we tried to, but it's there with any man that's any good. I'd rather go out for keeps than pull out—I'd rather they'd plant me. D'ye think I'd want to live an' have to cross the street because I couldn't look even a Polack in the eyes—a man would be better dead, what?"
For a moment Keating did not answer, he seemed to be weighing the possibility of still shaking the determination of the road boss before accepting it as irrevocable: then, evidently coming to the conclusion that it was useless to argue further, he pointed to the revolvers.
"Then the sooner you load those the better," he jerked out.
Spirlaw looked at him curiously, questioningly.
"Because," went on Keating, answering the unspoken interrogation, "when I dropped off the train I saw that fellow Kuryla—he was pointed out to me in Big Cloud yesterday—and three or four more drop off on the other side. I didn't know they were on the train until then, of course, or I would have had them put off. There isn't much doubt about what they are here for, is there?"
"So that's it, is it?" Spirlaw ripped out with an oath. "No, there ain't much doubt!"
He snatched up a cartridge-box, slit the paper band with his thumb nail, and, breaking the revolvers, began to cram the cartridges into the cylinders. His face was twitching and the red that flushed it shaded to a deep purple. Not another word came from him—just a deadly quiet. He thrust the weapons into his
