“Well?” He asked slowly.
“Nice day, stranger,” replied the man with the rifle, “but don't yu reckon yu've made a mistake?”
Hopalong glanced at the number burned on a near-by stake and carelessly blew another smoke ring. He was waiting for the gun to waver.
“No, I reckons not,” he answered. “Why?”
“Well, I'll jest tell yu since yu asks. This yere claim's mine an' I'm a reg'lar terror, I am. That's why; an' seein' as it is, yu better amble some.”
Hopalong glanced down the street and saw an interested group watching him, which only added to his rage for being in such a position. Then he started to say something, faltered and stared with horror at a point several feet behind his opponent. The “terror” sprang to one side in response to Hop-along's expression, as if fearing that a snake or some such danger threatened him. As he alighted in his new position he fell forward and Hopalong slid a smoking Colt in its holster.
Several men left the distant group and ran toward the claim. Hopalong reached his arm inside the door and brought forth his rifle, with which he covered their advance.
“Anything yu want?” he shouted savagely.
The men stopped and two of them started to sidle in front of two others, but Hopalong was not there for the purpose of permitting a move that would screen any gun play and he stopped the game with a warning shout. Then the two held up their hands and advanced.
“We wants to git Dan,” called out one of them, nodding at the prostrate figure.