“I’ve got something to say to you,” answered Joe thickly. He was panting, more from rage than exertion; his hands trembled.
Morgan looked him over from boots to bandless hat with the same evidence of curiosity as a person displays when turning some washed-up object with the foot on the sands. It was as if he had but an abstract interest in the youth, a feeling which the incident had obtruded upon him without penetrating the reserve of his private cogitations.
“Kid, you look like you’d seen a snake,” said he.
“You let that woman alone–you’ve got to let her alone, I tell you!” said Joe with explosive suddenness, his passion out of hand.
Morgan’s face grew red.
“Mind your own business, you sneakin’ skunk!” said he.
“I am minding it,” said Joe; “but maybe not as well as I ought to ’a’ done. Isom left me here in his place to watch and look after things, but you’ve sneaked in under my arm like a dirty, thieving dog, and you’ve–you’ve––”
Morgan thrust his fist before Joe’s face.
“That’ll do now–that’ll do out of you!” he threatened.
Joe caught Morgan’s wrist with a quick, snapping movement, and slowly bent the threatening arm down, Morgan struggling, foot to foot with him in the test of strength. Joe 95 held the captured arm down for a moment, and they stood breast to breast, glaring into each other’s eyes. Then with a wrench that spun Morgan half round and made him stagger, Joe flung his arm free.