He whirled over the rocky hump below the historic stone benches on Pine Mountain and streaked toward Gunsight, seeing the Doc come to the door of the shack and wave at him. The Doc was haggard and sallow, nervous and poorly nourished after an unfavorable bout with his worst enemy, and leaned weakly against the door casing as he watched the hard-riding puncher whirl toward him. He made up his mind that if Big Tom wanted to see him, Mahomet could come to the mountain, for he was in no condition to go afield. To his surprise and great relief, Smitty followed the bend in the trail and headed to ride past. Then it was that Doc waved again.
Smitty's hand went to his nose and he shouted a greeting and prophecy in three words. The Doc, unstrung and highly irritable, took enraged umbrage at the insulting greeting, jerked the Colt from its shoulder holster and took three erratic shots at the derisive rider, followed almost instantly by three more. Smitty's anger flared up and centered on this tangible escape valve. Shooting at him seemed to be the fashion these days, but it had to stop. There were five rapid reports and five puffs of smoke, spaced at regular intervals along the trail behind his horse. He was lucky in his off-hand shooting, for all of the bullets found a target. One smashed the Doc's window, already cracked; one drilled a hole through the edge of the door behind him; one turned his water bucket into a sprinkling can, and the other two screamed past him into the room and accounted for a dishpan and his lamp. The owner of the aforesaid articles waxed wrathy and indignant, and jumped up and down, making strange noises; then, running after the irritated puncher, tried in vain to find the chambers of his six-gun with the wrong ends of a handful of cartridges, at the same time indulging in a spirited monologue, which was jumpy and spasmodic from shortness of breath. Smitty turned in the saddle and let loose an insult which cannot be excelled in words, wig-wagged again, and flashed up the gentle slope toward town.
Gunsight heard him coming, and those inhabitants who suspected that strange things were likely to happen, made haste to look out and see what it was. Dailey chose his doorway, Dave an open window, while Two-Spot wished to be unhampered by walls and roof, and chose his favorite hang-out, the front of the saloon.
"Where you goin' so fast?" shouted Dailey, pleasantly curious. He became instantly indignant at the gesture which answered him, and the words which followed the action left no doubt in his mind that he had interpreted it correctly. He reached for his gun, thought better of it and, shaking a fist, shouted instead: "All right! But you'll be comin' back, cuss you!" and forthwith reached toward the gun again at the shouted answer he received.
Two-Spot saw the felt cup flapping up and down at the edge of the sombrero's peak and he let out a howl of pleasure at the sight, whereat Dave discreetly ducked back from the window, fearing Smitty's reply; but the puncher kept on ahead of his dust cloud and whirled over the trail toward Juniper.
Two-Spot shouted with laughter. "Did you see th' hat? Did you see it? Just what I was sayin'," he cried, delighted by the idea that his humorous conception had appealed to another. "Number Two, an' Smitty pulls his stakes. Hey, Dailey!" he shouted, "you says he'll be comin' back; I'm sayin' he won't. I'm bettin' we won't see Smitty no more. He's takin' what's left of his hat where it won't be spoiled no more. Did you notice th' hoss he's on? That ain't no Bar H critter; that's his own! I'm givin' you two to one he won't come back—two to one, you gapin' jackass!"
Dailey's open mouth closed suddenly, and he stepped forward, feeling for his gun again; but Two-Spot went around the corner of the saloon, kicking his heels together. "He won't come back! Squint, Polecat, an' Smitty! Wonder who else will be missin'? Three in a row—if Polecat stays away. But Polecat won't, cuss him. I know him too well for that. He won't—and I'll be glad of it, too, th' coyote. Who's next?"