Kelso’s lips curved into a slow, contemptuous smile.
“I reckon you’ve always been lucky,” he said.
“Meanin’?”
“Meanin’ that you’ve fell into a soft place here, that you ain’t fit to fill!”
Again a silence fell, dread, premonitory. It was plain to every man of the outfit, awake and listening, that Dorgan had a grievance—whether real or imaginary, it made little difference—and that he was determined to force trouble. Only Owen, apparently, knowing the real state of affairs, knew that the reference to Randerson’s inefficiency was a mere pretext. But that violence, open, deadly, was imminent, foreshadowed by Dorgan’s word, every man knew, and all sat tense and pale, awaiting Randerson’s reply.
They knew, these men, that it was not Randerson’s way to force trouble—that he would avoid it if he could do so without dishonor. But could he avoid it now? The eyes that watched him saw that he meant to try, for a slow, tolerant smile appeared on his lips.
“I reckon you’re plumb excited—Owen wakin’ you up out of your sleep like he did,” said Randerson. “But,” he added, the smile chilling a little, “I ain’t askin’ no man to work for me, if he ain’t satisfied. You can draw your time tomorrow, if it don’t suit you here.”
“I’m drawin’ it now!” sneered the gunman. “I ain’t workin’ for no pussy-kitten specimen which spends his time gallivantin’ around the country with a girl, makin’ believe he’s bossin’, when—” Here he added something that made the outfit gasp and stiffen.
As he neared the conclusion of the speech, his right hand fell to his gun-holster. Owen had been watching him, and at the beginning of the movement he shouted a warning:
“Look out, Wrecks!”