“Boys,” he said, looking round in their faces; “you’ve heerd what these strangers say to my mild requests. Since they are too mean to trade, I leave it to you to say whether we shall let up on ’em or make ’em trade; which is it?”
“Trade! trade!” was the response, given with such ardency that there seemed to be no dissent, though there was.
“That hits me right; trade it shall be; the first one of the strangers that kicks, fill him full of holes.”
“And the first man that lays a finger on my property,” said Captain Dawson, in the same deliberate voice, “will be shot down like a dog!”
The person whom Parson Brush had selected a few minutes before for his first target and whom he was watching closely, now did an extraordinary thing. This 248 individual was thin to emaciation. His beard was scant and scraggly, and his large black eyes gleamed like those of a wild animal. He had a very long body, and sat so upright in his saddle, with his Winchester resting across in front, that he towered head and shoulders above his companions. From the first, he fixed his penetrating eyes on Captain Dawson and studied him closely. It was this persistent intensity of gaze that attracted the notice of Brush, who set him down as being even more malignant than the leader of the disreputable party.
When a collision was impending, and must have come the next second, the singular looking man, grasping his revolver, raised his hand above his head and called:
“Hold on a minute!”
His commanding voice and manner hushed every one. From his place at the rear, he spurred his mule straight toward the three men standing on the ground.
“Keep off!” commanded the parson; “if you come any nearer I’ll shoot!”
The extraordinary looking individual gave him no heed, but forced his mule in front of Captain Dawson, upon whom he kept his eyes riveted.