“You go to hell!”
Ross stepped up to him and pointed across the opposite hill to where the dim crest of Timberland Mountain loomed in the rain.
“Bascomb & Company haven’t bid high enough for the raw material, including you. That’s all.”
Harrigan’s loose, heavy features hardened to a cold mask of hate as the full meaning of David’s words struck home. Then the sluggish blood leaped to his face and he stooped for the peavey at his feet, but David’s foot was on it like a flash. “None of that!”
They faced each other, shoulder to shoulder, David’s eyes measuring the distance to Harrigan’s jaw. In the intense silence the patter of rain on their oilskins sounded like the roll of kettledrums.
“Hey, Denny!” Up on the dam a dripping figure waved its arms.
“I’ll git you yit, you—”
“Swallow it!” David’s voice rang out imperiously. The wound above his ear tingled with the heat of blood that swept his face.
Harrigan drew back and turned toward the beckoning figure.
“Go ahead,” said David; “I don’t carry a gun.”