“It’s a frame-up!” snorted James Blaine Hawkins indignantly. “It’s a rotten frame-up! I’ll bet them papers is forged. There’s a law made to handle just such cases as yours, young feller. And yuh needn’t think I’m going to stand and be held up like that.”
“Well, I’ve told you all you’re entitled to know. I’ve no objection to your camping here for a while, so long as you behave yourself.” Gary threw away his cigarette stub. His tone had been as casual as if he were gossiping with Monty, but was not so friendly. He really did not want to fight James Blaine Hawkins, in spite of the fact that he had discussed the possibility quite frankly with the cat.
But James Blaine Hawkins had spent an uncomfortable night and he wanted some one else to pay for it. He began to shake his fists and to call names, none of which were nice. Gary was up to something, and Hawkins was not going to stand for it, whatever it was. Gary was a faker, a thief—though what he had stolen James Blaine Hawkins failed to stipulate. Gary was a forger (Hawkins hinted darkly that he had, in some mysterious manner, evolved those papers during the night for the express purpose of using them as a bluff this morning) and he was also a liar.
Wherefore Gary reached out a long arm and slapped James Blaine Hawkins stingingly on the ear. When the head of James Blaine Hawkins snapped over to his right shoulder, Gary reached his other long arm and slapped the head upright. James Blaine Hawkins backed up and felt his ear; both ears, to be exact.
“I didn’t come here to have no trouble,” James Blaine Hawkins protested indignantly. “A man of brains can always settle things with his brains. I don’t want to fight, and I ain’t goin’ to fight. I’m goin’ to settle this thing——”
“With your brains. Well, go on and settle it then. Only be careful and don’t sprain your head! Thinking’s dangerous when you’re not used to it. And if you do any more talking—which I certainly don’t advise—be careful of the words you use, Mr. Hawkins. I’m not a liar or a thief. Don’t call me either one.”
James Blaine Hawkins spluttered and swore and argued one-sidedly. Gary leaned against the cabin with his arms folded negligently and listened with supreme indifference if one were to believe his manner.
“Rave on,” he said indulgently. “Get it all out of your system—and then crank your little Ford and iris out of this scene, will you? I did say you could stay for a day or so if you behaved yourself. But you better beat it. The going may not be so good after awhile.”
James Blaine Hawkins intimated that he would go when he got good and ready. So Gary went in and shut the door. He was sick of the fellow. The man was the weakest kind of a bully. He wouldn’t fight. Heretofore Gary had believed that only a make-believe villain in a story would refuse to fight after he had been slapped twice.
When Gary came out of the cabin for a bucket of water, James Blaine Hawkins was fumbling in the car and talking to himself. He straightened up and renewed his aimless accusations when Gary passed him going to the creek.