Catamount Cass was a rough, illiterate "tough" of the mountain species, and possessed more brute courage than the general run of his type of men, and a bull-dog determination that made him all the more dangerous as an enemy.
Harry Redburn kept close at Ned Harris' heels, a cocked "six" in either hand ready for any emergency.
It took but a few moments before the two parties met, the "Cattymount" throwing out his foot to block the path.
"Hello!" roared the "tough," folding his huge knotty arms across his partially bared breast; "ho! ho! whoa up thar, pilgrims! Don' ye go ter bein' so fast. Fo'kes harn't so much in a hurry now-'days as they uster war. Ter be sure ther Lord manyfactered this futstool in seven days; sum times I think he did, an' then, ag'in, my geological ijees convince me he didn't."
"What has that to do with us?" demanded Ned, sternly. "I opine ye'd better spread, some of you, if you don't want me to run a canyon through your midst. Preach to some other pilgrim than me; I'm in a hurry!"
"Haw! haw! Yas, I obsarve ye be; but if ye're my meat, an' I think prob'ble ye be, I ain't a-goin' fer ter let yer off so nice and easy. P'arps ye kin tell who fired the popgun, a minnit ago, w'at basted my ole pard?"
"I shall not take trouble to tell!" replied Ned, fingering the trigger of his left six uneasily. "Ef you want to know who salted Chet Diamond, the worst blackleg, trickster and card-player in Dakota, all you've got to do is to go and ask him!"
"Hold!" cried Harry Redburn, stepping out from behind Harris; "I'll hide behind no man's shoulder. I salted the gambler—if you call shooting salting—and I'm not afraid to repeat the action by salting a dozen more just of his particular style."
Ned Harris was surprised.
He had set Redburn down as a faint-hearted, dubious-couraged counter-jumper from the East; he saw now that there was something of him, after all.