“There’s your trail—now hit it!” He motioned into the wilderness as he threw the doors wide.
Incredulity, amazement, appeared on Smaltz’s face.
In the instant that he stood staring a vein swelled on Bruce’s temple and in a spasm of fury he cried:
“Go, I tell you! Go while I can keep my hands off you—you—” he finished with an oath.
Smaltz went. He snatched his coat from its nail as he passed but did not stop for his hat. It was not until he reached the slab which served as a bridge over the water from the spillway that he recovered anything of his impudent nonchalance. He was in the centre of it when he heard Banule say:
“If it ud be me I’d a put a lash rope round his neck and drug him up that hill to jail.”
Smaltz wheeled and came back a step.
“Oh, you would, would you? Say, you fakir, I’m glad you spoke. I almost forgot you.” There was sneering, utter contempt in Smaltz’s voice. “Fakir,” he reiterated, “you get that, do you, for I’m pickin’ my words and not callin’ names by chance. You’re the worst that ever come off the Pacific coast—and that’s goin’ some.”
He turned sharply to Bruce.