“Look a here, young feller, there’s been many a man buried here for less than that,” the cowboy blustered, laying his hand threateningly on his revolver.
“Yes,” Scott replied, “and there’s been many a one hung for roping other people’s horses.”
The cowboy glared at Scott with malignant ferocity. He was no coward and seeing that Scott was unarmed had started to dismount when he suddenly remembered why Jed Clark had sent him into the mountains that morning. His manner changed suddenly.
“Well, bo,” he chuckled, “you’ve got the right stuff in you all right. Can’t bluff you, can they? Most of them Eastern fellers I’ve seen out here would run if a man so much as looked at his gun. I was just tryin’ you out.”
Scott looked at him in silence, not deigning to answer. He was not at all misled by his sudden change of front and he longed to tell him so, but he wanted to see what the man was really after.
“You’re the new patrolman, ain’t you?” the cowboy continued genially in spite of the frost.
“You ought to know,” Scott replied cuttingly, “I saw you at the corral with Jed Clark when I bought this horse.”
“You bet I was,” said the cowboy not in the least disconcerted, “and a blamed good job you made of it. That’s the best horse in the Southwest if you could ride him. Jed’s changed his mind about him now and he’s sorry he sold him.”
“You’re mistaken about his changing his mind,” Scott retorted, “he never intended to sell him.”
Jed had chosen his man well. He ignored the rebuff and maintained a genial countenance. “When I seen him standing out there this morning all saddled I thought maybe he had throwed you back there on the trail som’eres—liable to throw anybody, that horse is—and I was thinking to rope him and take him up to the cabin for you.”