“You must have fallen mighty hard,” he remarked. “Who hit you, Yank?”
“That lead teamster o’ yours,” growled Yank, with a string of oaths. “I’ll get him for that. No man can strike me and stay long on this earth. The dirty hound!” And he abused Joel horridly.
Joel heard the loud words, and suddenly leaving his team where it stood, came walking fast.
“None of that!” he called. “You keep a quiet tongue in your head. You can see what he did to my bulls, Charley. He laid my whip on them. I allow no man to cut my bulls. I never cut them myself. They were doing as well as they could.”
Charley quickly stepped between the two—for the hand of each was poised for the dart to revolver butt.
“That’s enough,” he bade. “There’s to be no fighting in this train and no swearing. You both know that. Give me your guns. Pass ’em over.”
“All right, Charley,” answered Joel. “Here are mine if you say so. I don’t need a gun to deal with that fellow.” And unbuckling his belt he tossed it aside.
“Now it’s up to you, Yank,” addressed Charley.
Yank flushed.