"What business is that!" Tom inquired over the supper table.
It was three days after the morning on which Ferrers had ridden away.
"That mongrel dog, Dolph Gage, took a shot at me this afternoon!" Ferrers exploded wrathfully. "I'd ought to have gotten him years ago. Now I'm going to drop all other business and find the fellow."
"What for?" Tom inquired innocently.
"What for?" echoed Jim, then added, ironically: "Why, I want to do the hyena a favor, of course."
"If you go out to look for him, you're not going armed, are you?"
Reade pursued.
"Armed?" repeated Ferrers, with withering sarcasm. "Oh, no, of course not. I'm going to ride up to him with my hands high in the air and let him take a shot at me."
"Jim," drawled Tom, "I'm afraid there's blood in your eye—-and not your own blood, either."
"Didn't that fellow kill my brother in a brawl?" demanded Ferrers. "Hasn't he pot-shotted at me? And didn't he do it again this afternoon?"
"Why didn't the law take up Gage's case when your brother was killed?" Tom inquired.