``Uh-huh. An' that could mean trouble with a fella that's workin' for crooks. So you get rid of that pistol right now, Mis-ter McBride. You do that or take you out a permit right now.''

McBride couldn't do either, of course. Not immediately, as the deputy demanded. Not without a face-saving respite of at least a few minutes. To do so would make his job well-nigh impossible. Oil-field workers were a rough tough lot. How could he exert authority over them -- make them toe the line, as he had to -- if he knuckled under to this small-town clown?

``I'll get around to it a little later,'' he mumbled desperately. ``Just as soon as I go to the bank, and'' --

``Huh-uh. Now, Mis-ter McBride,'' said Lord, and he laid a firmly restraining hand on the field boss's arm.

It was strictly the deputy's game, but McBride had gone too far to throw in. Now, he could only play the last card in what was probably the world's coldest deck.

He flung off Lord's hand and attempted to push past him, inadvertently shoving him into a storefront.

It was practically the last move that McBride made of his own volition.

Lord slugged him in the stomach, so hard that the organ almost pressed against his spine. Then, as he doubled, gasping, vomiting the breakfast he had so lately eaten, Lord straightened him with an uppercut. A rabbit punch redoubled him. And then there was a numbing blow to the heart, and another gut flattening blow to the stomach.