“No,” Archer replied. “I have my rights on the river and I don’t have to get out of your way. You can tail along behind me.”
“The hell we can!” flared Tobin, whose temper was always set on a hair-trigger. “Do you think we ain’t onto you, Archer. What’s Clancys payin’ you for doin’ their dirty work?”
Archer put his pipe in his pocket with deliberation. “Any more talk like that, Tobin, and you and me will settle it right here,” he announced.
Tobin, nowise loath, would have accepted the challenge instantly, but Joe restrained him and pointed to a man who appeared on the bank.
“It’s quite plain what this gentleman is up to, Tobin. There’s Rough Shan McCane. I guess any more talk is waste time.”
McCane sprang down like a cat and advanced truculently. “Tom,” said he to Archer, “I’m going to give this young feller a father of a lickin’ an’ put the boots to him afterward. You look after the other one.”
Joe did not assume any attitude popularly supposed to be one of defence, but the bunched shoulder muscles crept and crawled beneath his shirt, and Archer, eying him carefully, interposed a decided negative.
“No, you won’t. I don’t want any trouble with Mr. Kent or his crew. If they crowd us it’ll be different.”
“It’ll be a lot different,” said Tobin. “You’re McCane, are you? I’ve heard of your doin’s this winter. You’ve got it comin’ to you, me buck, tie into that.”
Then and there hostilities would have started but for Joe and Archer, who kept cool. Tobin and McCane growled at each other like leashed fighting-dogs.