“Well, repress the sentiments,” urged Mrs. Crump, calmly. “I guess we coincide with your feelin’s, more or less, but at the present moment Sandy is a guest on this here prop’ty, which same prop’ty belongs to me, more or less. You’re a guest likewise and I don’t aim to have no ruction start between two o’ my guests. I don’t know you, Mr. Premble, and I don’t know as I want to know ye, having a mean and rollin’ eye like you have; but you’re here on business and that goes as it lays. No war talk! Savvy?”
With a mighty effort Mr. Premble composed his features.
“Very well, madam, very well,” he returned, stiffly. “You may depend upon it, there will be no more trouble—unless I meet this man the other side of your property line.”
“You won’t,” said Mrs. Crump, grimly. “Come on in and set to dinner. Gilbert, you done? Then call that there driver to come up and have a bite, will ye? No words out’n you, neither, Sandy Mackintavers. Gents, come inside an’ smoke up and entertain Mr. Premble. I’ll get them ’tatoes het up in a mite.”
First to enter the shack was James Z. Premble. He passed Mackintavers, standing at the door, and glared at him. Then, as he passed on into the shack, the features of Mr. Premble relaxed into the fleetest and most momentary shadow of a grin.
CHAPTER XVI—DORALES POSTS NOTICES
The excitement caused by the arrival of James Z. Premble caused everyone to forget the horseman who had been seen approaching from the north. And Mr. Premble, somewhat against his inmost desire, continued for a time to fill the centre of the picture.
The assemblage quite filled the shack—crowded it, in fact. Premble, the New Yorker, barely paused for introductions before diving into the food that Mrs. Crump set before him. Lewis sat and smoked in the lean-to, by the stove; Gilbert lounged beside the door. Mackintavers sat in the corner, chewing a cigar. Coravel Tio was rolling a cigarette with great care, and sighed a little as he licked it; leaning forward, he scratched a match upon the floor, and took advantage of a pause in the conversation to address James Z. Premble.
“An odd name, señor,” he said, softly. “A very odd name! I have never met any one whose initial was that of Z. May I ask what name it stands for, señor?”
Mr. Premble looked at his questioner, and in his shrewd eyes there showed a swift and sudden hesitation; but Coravel Tio was lighting his cigarette with much absorption.