“What the devil ’re you doin’ there?” was his expressive question.
His disfigured countenance was aflame with rage; and drawing his tall form to its full height he nervously fingered the trigger of his rifle.
“Attending to my own business,” Ross answered with provoking coolness, as he strode forth and faced his questioner.
“Meddlin’ with mine, more likely,” was the growling rejoinder.
“No,” Douglas replied laughingly, “but if the negro ever sues for his wages, I can be a witness to the fact that you’ve paid him.”
“What do you mean?” blustered Bradford, his face purple.
“I was passing and saw you give the darkey the money. Are you the contractor that employs those black fellows?”
“You know very well I’m not. What’re you insinuatin’?”
“Nothing.”
“What was you spyin’ upon me fer?”