"I'm the feller that owns the coon you tried to club to death," Billy answered.
Scroggie's mouth fell open in surprise. "I didn't try to kill any coon," he denied. "I saw one but it wasn't me that clubbed it; it was a tall, sandy-haired feller with a squint eye. I asked him what he was tryin' to do and he told me to dry up and mind my own business. I had to give him a lickin'. He went off blubberin'; said if I wasn't too scared to stick around he'd send a feller over who would fix me. So I stayed."
"I wish you had licked him harder 'n you did," frowned Billy.
"Know him?"
"Well, I do—an' I don't. He's my half-brother an' a sneak if ever there was one. He lied about you to me—so's I'd fight you."
"And what's your name?"
"Billy Wilson."
Scroggie stared. "I've heard of you," he said, "an' the feller who told me you could lick your weight in wildcats wasn't far wrong. You had me fooled, though," he laughed. "I swallowed what you said about nice boys not fightin', swallowed it whole. Oh, Moses!"
Billy sat down on a stump. "I don't bear no grudge, do you?" he asked.
"No, I'm willin' to shake." Scroggie extended his hand.