"Oh, yes—Hall," he cringed. "You're new in the Basin. Are you staying over at the Scarboroughs?"
"No," returned Hall, and the Indian eyes of Sharps Bassett seemed to stab him in the back for a liar. "I'm just going through," explained McIvor at length, and instantly the storekeeper asked where. Then, without waiting for the answer, he darted to the doorway, and Bassett stepped out behind him. Hall followed them quickly, for they were gazing to the south; and as he looked down the trail he saw the gunmen from the Rock House riding in with the Scarboroughs at their head. They came on at a gallop letting out shrill yips and yelps and rollicking about in their saddles; and as they thundered up to the store Sharps reached for his rifle and put his broad back to the wall.
"Oh, here you are!" sneered Isham as Sharps faced him stolidly. "Well, you sorry, black bastard, I want to warn ye for the last time not to bring them sheep into this Basin. This is a white man's country and you've got no business here nohow; but if you bring in them Mexicans we'll run them out first, and then we'll run you out. What'd ye think you was going to do—shoot this man in the back while he was buying a plug of tobaccy? Well, we've got you, Mister Injun, this trip!"
Sharps grunted contemptuously and shifted his eyes and as the Texans followed his glance they saw two other horsemen, riding rapidly in from the east. They came on at a gallop, then reined in their fine horses and trotted gracefully up to the store. It was Winchester Bassett and Bill.
Bill was nothing but a boy, lighter complected than his brothers but with the same heavy, half-Indian face; and as he rode up beside Sharps he stuck out his chin and made a mouth at the swaggering Elmo.
"Hello there, Squirley!" he hailed insultingly, and Winchester told him to shut up. Winchester Bassett was tall and slenderly built, with a heavy black mustache and a lightning-like quickness of eye; but as he reproved his younger brother he had a smile of easy tolerance, and young Bill was by no means abashed. They both dropped to the ground and as they lined up beside Sharps the Texans reined their horses away. It was a challenge, a defiance to the whole Scarborough clan which had ridden up and surrounded their chief; and as the Scarboroughs gave back Winchester smiled again, for he saw that their bluff had been called. They had galloped over to the store to catch Sharps by himself and worry him as dogs do a wolf, but Sharps had stood them off and now they had joined him—three men against fifteen, but determined. And three men on foot, with the firm ground to shoot from, might easily come off the victors; for the horses of the Texans, being wild and half-broken, would jump at the very first shot.
But no shot would be fired—or not at that time—for Isham had given the word to stand back; and as the gunmen grinned and weakened even Sharps' snake-like eyes took on a glint that was Indian for a smile. He was all Indian, this eldest of the fighting Bassett tribe, slow and stolid but immovable as a wall. No matter what the odds, Sharps Bassett would never run; and his old battered rifle had killed more bears and lions than any other gun in the country. He stood there now like a grizzly bear at bay; and Bill, seeing the Texans filing in for a drink, turned his eyes to the smart-Aleck Elmo.
"Put down that gun," he challenged, as Elmo began to roll his pistol, "and I'll come over there and whip you."
"I don't haf to!" retorted Elmo, raising his pistol with a flourish and riding out past a tree; and as he whirled his horse he put six shots into the tree trunk, coming by it on the gallop.
"Beat that!" he said, "and I'll show you some real shooting. I can put up a six-spot and shoot out every pip with my horse going by on the run."