He swung about suddenly from the mirror and caught sight of a knothole in the cabin wall, which so far he had neglected to patch with tin. He noted it as he swung about and dived at the pillow on his bed. He hurled the pillow one side, swept up the ivory-handled '45 that lay there, wheeled, and fired at the knothole. There had been no appreciable pause between his grasping of the weapon and the trigger pull, yet he saw no bullet hole in the cabin boards when the smoke had cleared away.
He chuckled grimly. "I might get out my army medals for marksmanship and pin 'em on my breast for a target," he said.
Then to his vast confusion there came a voice from the front of the house.
"Ain't committed soothin' syrup, have ye?" it boomed.
There was no mistaking the deep-lunged tones. It was Old Man Selden who had called to him.
Oliver tossed the gun on the bed and walked through to the front door, which always stood open these days, inviting the countless little lizards that his invasion of the place had not disturbed to enter and make themselves at home.
The gaunt old boss of the Clinker Creek Country stood, with chap-protected legs wide apart, on Oliver's little porch. His broad-brimmed black hat was set at an angle on his iron-grey hair, and his cold blue eyes were piercing and direct, as always. In his hands he held the reins of his horse's bridle. Back of the grey seven men lounged in their saddles, grinning at the old man's sally. Digger Foss was not among the number.
"How d'ye do, Mr. Selden," said Oliver in cordial tones, thrusting forth a strong brown hand.
Selden did not accept the hand, and made no effort to pretend that he had not noticed it. Oliver quickly withdrew it, and two little lumps showed over the hinges of his jaws.
He changed his tone immediately. "Well, what can I do for you gentlemen?" he inquired brusquely.