Brayley's strength of lungs came back to him with a new anger. "You howlin' idiot, what are you tryin' to do?"
"I was a-readin'," responded Lonesome Pete, still grinning vapidly, still not quite certain whether the things which he saw about him were real things or literary hallucinations.
"A-readin'!" snapped Brayley, sitting up. "That what I'm payin' you for, you blame gallinipper!"
With a glance from Brayley's lacerated face to the bloody smears on Conniston's, Lonesome Pete got to his feet and, shaking his head and dusting the seat of his overalls as he went, turned and disappeared into the stable after his horse. Brayley glared after him a second, grunted, and got to his feet.
"Well," he snarled, facing Conniston. "You licked me. Now what? Want to beat me up some more?"
"No, I don't," Conniston answered him, steadily. "You know I had to do it, Brayley. You had it coming to you after that first night in the bunk-house. Now—I want to shake hands, if you do."
With a keen, measuring glance from under swelling eyelids, and no faintest hesitation, Brayley put out his hand.
"Shake!" he grunted. "You done it fair. I didn't think you had it in you. And"—with a distorted grin—"I'll 'scuse the left hand, Con!"