But Joe, in his excitement, could think of no suitable object by which to swear, so ended with a gasping sputter.
“You seem to be terribly worked-up ’bout somethin’, stranger,” the soldier remarked coolly. “An’ you threaten to trounce the guide that calls hisself Ross Douglas. Well, maybe you’re like a singed cat—better’n you look—but if I was you I’d hire the job out. I seen the feller you talk o’ whippin’ lick two men bigger’n you—an’ not half try—jest ’cause they spit tobacker juice in his dog’s eye.”
“It don’t make no differ’nce who he’s licked, n’r who he hain’t,” Joe answered obstinately. “A man that’s mean enough to palm hisself off fer Ross Douglas—who’s dead an’ gone—has got to take a trouncin’ from me. Ross Douglas was my best friend; an’ I won’t have his name stol’d an’ disgraced by no two-legged critter that ever tramped on new ground—I won’t, by Queen Elizabeth! It ’pears the rascal thinks a sight o’ the dog—bein’ ready to fight fer him; but my mind’s made up—the cuss has got to be licked.”
By this time a knot of soldiers had gathered at the spot. Now they nudged one another and exchanged facetious winks and remarks. They were expecting to see no end of fun, when the guide should put in an appearance.
Farley muttered impatiently:
“I wish the critter’d come—right while I’m in a good notion. When he does, one o’ you fellers p’int him out to me.”
A number of the assembled militiamen offered to perform the service. Suddenly one of them remarked in a stage whisper:
“The council’s broke up. Here comes the officers now.”
“P’int him out to me!” Farley hissed between his set teeth.
And giving his gun into Bright Wing’s hands, he rolled up his ragged sleeves, revealing his knotted and sinewy arms.