“Yes; he's Daubigny, who bought the title from us.”
There was a momentary hush, and then a hurried murmur.
“Which means, gents,” rose Uncle Ben's voice persuasively, “that this yer young man, though fair-minded and well-intended, hez bin a leetle too chipper and previous in orderin' out the law. This yer ain't no law matter with ME, boys. It ain't to be settled by law-papers, nor shot-guns and deringers. It's suthin' to be chawed over sociable-like, between drinks. Ef any harm hez bin done, ef anythin's happened, I'm yer to 'demnify the sheriff, and make it comf'ble all round. Yer know me, boys. I'm talkin'. It's me—Dabney, or Daubigny, which ever way you like it.”
But in the silence that followed, the passions had not yet evidently cooled. It was broken by the sarcastic drawl of Dick McKinstry: “If them Harrisons don't mind heven had their medders trampled over by a few white men, why”—
“The sheriff ez 'demnified for that,” interrupted Uncle Ben hastily.
“'N ef Dick McKinstry don't mind the damage to his pants in crawlin' out o' gunshot in the tall grass”—retorted Joe Harrison.
“I'm yer to settle that, boys,” said Uncle Ben cheerfully.
“But who'll settle THIS?” clamored the voice of the older Harrison from behind the barn where he had stumbled in crossing the fallen hay. “Yer's Seth Davis lyin' in the hay with the top of his head busted. Who's to pay for that?”
There was a rush to the spot, and a quick cry of reaction.
“Whose work is this?” demanded the sheriff's voice, with official severity.