Several murmurs of protest came from the other raiders.
“I reckon, Rafe, you and Jeff had better step back and let the rest of us handle this thing,” advised one of the party. “The pair of you are too chicken-livered for us.”
“It's a lie, as anyone in Paloma knows,” Rafe retorted coolly. “No—put up your shooters,” as the hands of five or six men slid to their belts. “There's no need of bad blood between us. All I ask is for Jim Duff to step back out of this.”
“Am I the leader here or am I not?” demanded Duff boldly. “Wasn't it my interests that were first assailed by these fresh tenderfeet! Didn't you gentlemen come out to-night, to help me attend to my affair? Didn't you turn also to avenge the blow that has been dealt these cubs to poor George Ashby's prosperity?”
At hearing himself so sympathetically referred to, Ashby threw himself forward, a short, double-barreled shotgun in his hands.
“Yes, you, get back, you white-livered cowards!” commanded Ashby hoarsely. “You let Duff and myself and the rest of us here handle these young hounds as they deserve to be treated. You, Rafe and Jeff, get out of this. You've no business here. You belong to the enemies of business interests in Paloma. The rest of us will settle with these business destroyers.”
Ashby's eyes glowed with the unbridled fury of the lunatic. Yet Rafe Bodson did not waver.
“Gentlemen,” he demanded coldly, “for what purpose did you bring these young fellows out here?”
“To lynch 'em!” came the hoarse murmur.
“Then go ahead and do it, like men,” ordered Bodson. “There are the trees. You have your ropes, and your men are ready. Remember, no cowardly treatment of young fellows whose hands are tied. Go on with the lynching and get it over with!”