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the meal in silence. Paul thanked her and strolled back into the bar. She did not look up as he left.
    Finch was standing at the bar, in conversation with a couple of the miners and having a drink at their expense. Paul walked up casually, pushed in alongside Finch and ordered a brandy.
    "Just got through eating," he volunteered. "Where you eating your meals these days, Finch?"
    Finch half turned and smiled at him. "You're taking a very personal interest in my welfare, aren't you, Paul?"
    "I'm trying to keep you good and healthy for the trip home, Alonzo."
    "I aim to stay healthy, and I feel very healthy here. Good climate. Quit stalling and have your say."
    "What were you doing at the ranch last night?"
    "Me? What would I be doing there?"
    "I don't know. I'm just asking."
    "Look, Paul; you don't have to act like a hay hauler just because you are one."
    Paul felt the cords in his neck stiffen. Before he could retort, Alonzo turned around and said, "Are these troopers friends of yours, Paul? They appear to be taking your measure."
    The two troopers he had fought the day before had come in unobtrusively. Stebbins, with his long jackass jaw, stood with his back to the door, and Miles was moving forward slowly but purposefully on his short, thick legs. The cut on his face from the battle of the day before had barely closed. Stebbins' left eye still had a discouraged hue.
    Paul stood with his back against the bar, not moving.
    "Howdy, men," Paul greeted them affably. "You gave me a tough go yesterday. How about a drink on it?"
    He was making an overture of peace if they cared to accept it.
    "Granted," Miles said, circling to the end of the bar, "we were out of line yesterday. We were rough on the old coot. But he could have saved himself the beating."
    "How?"
    "By answering our questions."
    "He had no answers. There is no gold."
    "There's some who think different. But no matter. A man resents a whipping. More than that, a trooper resents being sent home on foot. If you've got any guts, stand away from the bar!"
    Paul could not watch both men at once. He kept his eye on Miles, and saw the savage expectancy in his beady eyes. "Let's take it outside, Miles," he suggested quietly.
    The next instant he felt his feet raked out from under him, and as he hit the floor, the hard sole of a boot crashed into the side of his head!
     

Chapter 3
    Stunned by the brutal kick, Paul lay with his head at an angle against the bar. The roaring pain in his head failed to dull his reflexes. He caught the booted foot and twisted with all the power of his wide shoulders. Cursing, Stebbins spun and crashed to the floor. Paul rolled away from the bar. Miles was on the other side of him. He kept thinking of that.
    He crouched erect unsteadily, eyes blurred. Miles came at him, his fists cocked. Paul was in the open. He backed toward the far wall. He had to keep his tormentors in front of him. Miles closed in. A fist hammered against Paul's ribs, and then his pent-up fury loosed itself. He jabbed and cut Miles' square-cut face. There was a spurt of blood as Miles gave ground. Paul hit him again and watched him fall.
    Stebbins was up then, circling. Gasping, Paul felt hopeless and tricked. He was still in the open, with his enemies on either side of him. He moved into Stebbins, felt Stebbins' fists rake and bruise his face. Strangely, the blows served to clear his head. He threw a punch at Stebbins' stomach, and as his guard came down, smashed another blow into Stebbins' mouth, drawing blood. Stebbins backed up, spitting blood and yelling at Miles to close in from behind.
    The barroom was filling up now. The miners were straggling down the hill, their pockets fat with pay. As the news of the fight was relayed back up the straggling line, the miners broke into a run. This was better than they had bargained for—a grudge fight to start off the celebration. They crowded into the room, shouting and shoving, placing bets upon the outcome.
    Addie, still in the