All eyes focused on Scott. In mud-spattered chaps and leather coat, his sombrero on the back of his head, a cigarette hanging from his hard, handsome mouth, Scott leaned easily against the table, eying Judith. Douglas looked from Scott to Judith and from Judith out of the window where beyond the yellow green of rabbit bush that carpeted the valley there lay the green shadow of the Forest Reserve. After a moment's thought he said:
"What made you draw on me like that, Scott?"
"I thought you'd pulled your gun."
"I punched you right and left. You knew I hadn't pulled a gun. As far as
I'm concerned, you're too free and easy with that six-shooter of yours."
"Me, too," agreed the sheriff, scratching Prince's ear.
"He's the gun pullingest guy in the Rockies," volunteered Jimmy.
"All I want to say," Doug announced, "is that when I get use of my shooting arm again, I'm going to pot Scott on sight."
Peter looked at Douglas' tanned face beneath the tumbled golden hair.
"Let's sit down," said Peter, "and go over this thing carefully. Scott's leading with the wrong foot in this valley, but I don't know as shooting him on sight is the answer."
Scott and Jimmy perched on the table, John and Judith on the foot of the bed. The others found chairs. Doug stared at Peter, at first with resentment, then with an air of curiosity.