Macdonald felt a hot surge of resentment rise to his eyes, so suddenly and so strongly that it dimmed his sight. He shut his mouth hard on the words 98 which sprang into it, and held himself in silence until he had command of his anger.
“I’m hunting,” said he, meeting Chadron’s eye with meaning look.
“On foot, and waitin’ for dark!” the cattleman sneered.
“I’m going on foot because the game I’m after sticks close to the ground. There’s no need of naming that game to you—you know what it is.”
Macdonald spoke with cutting severity. Chadron’s dark face reddened under his steady eyes, and again the big rowels of his spurs slashed his horse’s sides, making it bound and trample in threatening charge.
“I don’t know anything about your damn low business, but I’ll tell you this much; if I ever run onto you ag’in down this way I’ll do a little huntin’ on my own accord.”
“That would be squarer, and more to my liking, than hiring somebody else to do it for you, Mr. Chadron. Ride on—I don’t want to stand here and quarrel with you.”
“I’m goin’ to clear you nesters out of there up the river”—Chadron waved his hand in the direction of which he spoke—“and put a stop to your rustlin’ before another month rolls around. I’ve stood your fences up there on my land as long as I’m goin’ to!”
“I’ve never had a chance to tell you before, Mr. Chadron”—Macdonald spoke as respectfully as his deep detestation of the cattleman would allow—“but if you’ve got any other charge to bring against me 99 except that of homesteading, bring it in a court. I’m ready to face you on it, any day.”
“I carry my court right here with me,” said Chadron, patting his revolver.