“I beg your pardon for saying what I did then, for I have no desire to quarrel with a man of your reputation. Perhaps it is for the best that Whirlwind should escape at this time, but my hour will come, and when it does—let him beware of me.”
“All hunky; rub him out the fust chaince you git. Now what’s your handle, young man?”
“People who know me well, call me Rafe Norris.”
“I don’t keer what people call you. Is Rafe Norris yer handle?”
“Yes.”
“What’s yer biz?”
“I can’t tell you that just now, my good friend. I—”
He did not finish the sentence, for Old Pegs caught him by the shoulders and flung him heavily to the ground, falling beside him from the impetus of his own exertions. The hand of the old guide was outstretched, and catching up a heavy stone he flung it with deadly aim at the feathered head of an Indian which at this moment rose above the ledge and who was poising a lance for a throw. Straight between the eyes the heavy stone struck, and, spreading his arms abroad, the Indian plunged head-foremost into the depths below, where his skull was shattered out of the semblance of humanity upon the rocks. So quickly was it done that Rafe Norris had no idea why he had been so rudely assailed, and seizing upon Old Pegs, began to pommel him about the head and shoulders.
“See yer, my boy,” said Old Pegs, “ef you hit me and I find it out, I’ll be darned ef I don’t send fer ye once, jest fer fun—now you hear me. Confound each individual wolverine in these tempestuous wilds ef I knows what’s the matter with you.”
“What did you pitch into me for?” hissed Rafe, in an angry tone.