“They tell me,” he magnified, so as not to be outdone in sensationalism, “that this feller has licked every man that they've turned him loose on between here and Sunkhaze, an' now is just grittin' his teeth a-waitin' for the colonel.”
“Wal,” said the cookee, solemnly, “if the r'yal Asiatic tiger—meanin' Colonel Gid—and the great human Bengal—meanin' him as is in the wangan—get together in this clearin', I think I'd rather see it from up a tree.” And the two were only diverted from their breathless discussion of possibilities by the noisy arrival of Gideon Ward, clamoring for his supper.
Parker had hardly finished in solitude his humble supper brought by the cookee, when there was a rattling of the padlock outside. Open flew the door of bolted planks, and Colonel Ward stamped in, kicking the snow from his feet with wholly unnecessary racket of boots. A hatchet-faced man, whose chin was framed between the ends of a drooping yellow mustache, followed meekly and closed the door. Parker rose with a confident air he was far from feeling.
Ward gazed on his prisoner a moment, his gray hair bristling from under his fur cap, his little eyes glittering maliciously. His cheek knobs were more irately purple than ever. He took up his cry where he had left it at Poquette Carry, and began to shout:
“Better'n law, hey? Better'n law! Ye remember what I said, don't yeh? Better'n law!”
The young man faced him.
“Colonel Ward, there's a law against trespass, a law against conspiracy, a law against riots and destruction of property, and a law against abduction. I promise you here and now that you'll learn something about those laws later.”
“Still threat'nin' me right on my own land, are yeh, hey?”