THE STRANGER SHOOTS The stranger seemed taller on the ground than in the saddle and an admirable breadth of shoulder and slenderness of waist told eloquently of strength.

He could not have been over twenty-five or six.

Yet certain hard lines about his mouth, the glint of mockery in his eyes, the pronounced forward thrust of the chin, the indefinable force that seemed to radiate from him, told the casual observer that here was a man who must be approached with care.
But apparently the shooter saw no such signs.

In the first glance that had been exchanged between the two men there had been a lack of ordinary cordiality.

And now, as the rider slid down from his pony and advanced toward the center of the street, the shooter's lips curled.
Writhing through them came slow-spoken words.
"You runnin' sheep, stranger ?" The rider's lips smiled, but his eyes were steady and cold.