"He is all right; keep cool, keep cool!" said Betterson.
On came Peakslow, the inverted prow of his hooked nose cutting the air,—both hands grasping the gun, ready for a shot.
Jack did not heed him. Snatching the corn from Lion's mouth, he held it out to Snowfoot: in a moment Snowfoot was crunching corn and bits, and the bridle was slipping over his ears.
"Head him off, boys!" shouted Peakslow. Then to Jack, "Stop, or I'll shoot!"
"If there's any shooting to be done," said Betterson, without for a moment losing his politeness of tone and manner, "I can shoot as quick as anybody; and, by the powers above, I will, if you draw trigger on that boy!"
"Take care of him,—go!" cried Jack, giving Lion the bridle-rein and Snowfoot a slap. Then confronting Peakslow, "I've got my horse; I'm on Mr. Betterson's land; what have you to say about it?"
