``He's finished eating,'' Hogan said. ``Sitting with a cup of coffee now. It shouldn't be long.''

It seemed long, at least to Tom Brannon. He and Hogan waited by the door, one to either side. Macklin was the third man to come out, and he came unhurriedly. He was puffing on a cigar, and he was turning up his coat collar against the rain. It was not until he moved across the porch that he became aware of them, and then it was too late. They closed in fast, kept him from reaching inside his coat for his gun.

``Just come along,'' Brannon told him. ``Don't start anything you cann't finish.''

``Now, listen'' -- Macklin began.

``We'll talk over at your office.''

``Brannon, I warn you!'' ``Let's go, Marsh al,'' Brannon said, and took him by the arm.

Hogan gripped the lawman's other arm. They escorted him down from the porch and through the rain to his office. The other five Slash-B men followed them inside, crowding the small room. His face was stiff with anger when they let go of his arms. He looked at each of them in turn, Brannon last of all.

``I'll remember you,'' he said. ``Every last one of you. As for you, Brannon'' --

``Put your gun on the desk, Marshal.''

``Now, hold on, damn it; I wonn't'' --

Red Hogan's patience ran out. He lifted the skirt of Macklin's coat, took his gun from its holster, tossed it onto the desk. ``Too much fooling around,'' he said. ``Don't press your luck, badge toter.''