"We was ridin' through an' thought we heard a shot," said Selden. "So I dropped off to see if ye wasn't hurt."
"I beg your pardon," Oliver returned, "but you must have been dismounted when I fired. This being the case, you already had decided to call on me. So, once more, how can I be of service to you?"
The grins of the men who rode with Adam Selden disappeared. There was no mistaking the businesslike hostility of Oliver's attitude.
"Peeved about somethin' this mornin'," one of them drawled to the rider whose knee pressed his.
Oliver looked straight at Old Man Selden, and to him he spoke.
"I am not peeved about anything," he said. "But when a man comes to my door, and I come and offer him my hand, and he ignores it, my inference is that the call isn't a friendly one. So if you have any business to transact with me, let's get it off our chests."
Oliver noted with a certain amount of satisfaction the quick, surprised looks that were flashed among the Poison Oakers. Apparently they had met a tougher customer than they had expected.
All this time the cold blue eyes of Adam Selden had been looking over the pitted Bourbon nose at Oliver. Selden's tones were unruffled as he said:
"Thought maybe the poison oak had got too many for ye, an' ye'd shot yerself."
"I don't care to listen to subtle threats," Oliver returned promptly. "Poison oak does not trouble me at all—neither the vegetable variety nor the other variety. I'm never in favour of bandying words. If I have anything to say I try to say it in the best American-English at my command. So I'll make no pretence, Mr. Selden, that I have not heard you don't want me here in the cañon. And I'll add that I am here, on my own land, and intend to do my best to remain till I see fit to leave."