Calvin Streeter rode out of the throng and pushed his way to the front.
Yarpe yelled: "H'yar! Keep in line there!"
"Go to hell!" replied Calvin, as he rode past him. "I'm no nigger. I want to hear what goes on, and I tell ye right now you treat these people fair or you'll hear from me."
"I'll shoot you up a few if you ain't keerful, young feller," replied the old ruffian.
"That's right, General, he's too fresh," called some one.
Calvin spurred his horse alongside Yarpe's and looked him in the eye with a glare which made the older man wince. "You be decent before these women or I'll cut the heart out o' ye. You hear me!"
Curtis stepped forward. "Careful, Streeter—don't provoke trouble; we'll protect the women."
The sheriff rode between the two men. "Cal, git away—you're my deputy, remember."
As Cal reined his horse away, Curtis went to him and said, in a low voice: "I appreciate your chivalry, Calvin, but be careful; don't excite them."
As he looked into the big, red, whiskey-bloated face of Yarpe, Curtis was frankly dismayed. The old ruffian was not only inflamed with liquor, he was intoxicated with a subtler elixir—the pride of command. As he looked back over his followers he visibly expanded and a savage glare lit up his eyes. "Keep quiet, boys; I'll settle this thing."