Farrar leaned against the fence, watching Max cut the prime steers into the feed pen.
A man was leaning on the fence next to him.
"That boy's got a sixth sense with a horse," Farrar said, without looking at him.
The man's voice was noncommittal. "Yeah."
He finished rolling a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. "Got a match?"
"Why, sure," Farrar said, reaching into his pocket.
He struck a match and held it toward the man.
His hand froze as he saw the tobacco pouch in his hand.
The man followed his gaze.
"What you lookin' at?"
"That tobacco pouch," Farrar said. "I ain't seen nothin' like it."
The man laughed. "Ain't nothin' but an ol' squaw tit," he said. "They the best things for keepin' tobacco moist an' fresh.
They ain't much for wear, though. This one's gettin' awful thin." Suddenly, Farrar turned from the fence to signal Max. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the man said.
There was a rustle of movement behind him and Farrar became aware of the other men.
He watched helplessly as Max dropped the gate on the last of the steers and rode over to them. Max got off his horse and tied it to a post. "All finished, Mr. Farrar," he said with a smile.
"That was good ridin', boy," the man said. He threw the tobacco pouch to Max. "Here, have yourself a smoke."
Max caught it easily.
"Thanks, mister," he said. He looked down at the pouch to open it. He looked up at the man, then down at the pouch again, his face going pale.
The pouch fell from his fingers and the tobacco spilled onto the ground.
He stared up at the man. "I never would've known you, you hadn't done that," he said softly.
Dort laughed harshly. "It's the beard, I reckon."
Max started to back away slowly.
"You're one of them, all right. Now I recognize you."
"I'm one of them," Dort said, his hand hovering over his gun. "What're you goin' to do about it?"
Unconsciously Farrar and the others moved to the side.
"Don't do anything, Max," Farrar called hoarsely. "That's Tom Dort.
You got no idea how fast he is."
Max didn't take his eyes from Dort's face.
"It don't make no difference how fast he is, Mr. Farrar," he said.
"I'm goin' to kill him."
"Go for your gun, Injun," Dort said heavily.
"I’ll wait," Max said softly. "I want you to die slow, like my ma."
Dort's face was turning red and flushed in the hot sun.
"Draw," he said hoarsely. "Draw, you goddam half-breed son of a two-bit Injun whore.
Draw, damn you!"
"I ain' in no hurry to kill you," Max answered softly. "I ain' even goin' for your head or heart.
I'm goin' to shoot you in the balls first, then a couple of times in the belly.
I wanna watch you die."
Dort began to feel fear growing in him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the watching men.
He stared at Max. The boy's face shone with hatred; his lips were drawn back tightly across his teeth.
Now, Dort thought, now. I might just as well get it over with.
His hand moved suddenly toward his gun.
Farrar saw the movement but fast as he shifted his eyes, it wasn't quick enough to see Max's gun leap into his hand.
It roared almost before Dort's gun had cleared its holster.
The gun fell from Dort's hand and he sank to his knees in the dirt, his hands grabbing at his crotch.
Max started walking toward him slowly.
Dort kneeled there for a moment in almost a praying position, then lifted his hand and looked at it. The blood ran down from his fingers. He stared up at Max.
"You son of a bitch!" he screamed and grabbed for the gun in the dirt beside him.
Max waited until Dort lifted the muzzle toward him, then he fired twice again.