“A fine snake you are!” Teddy said contemptuously. “Tried to pull a knife on me, didn’t you? For two cents I’d—”
“Oh, let me alone!” the man burst out. “Yes, I tried to knife you, an’ I’m sorry I didn’t! I don’t like your kind! When I came out here—” He stopped, and bit his lip.
Teddy gazed at him in wonder. The man’s Western accent had disappeared. He carried a knife—a thing no true Westerner ever did except for working purposes. Mexicans carried them—it was a Greaser trait. Was this man a Mex? Teddy looked at him closely.
“What you starin’ at?” The Pup asked uneasily, once more reverting to his former manner. “You got me, didn’t yuh? Well, call it a day! Yuh got a shootin’ iron there—why don’t yuh use it?”
“I’m not in the habit of shooting men down in cold blood,” Teddy said deliberately. He stepped closer to the man. “Marino! where are you from?” he snapped.
Although a cloud dimmed the moon just then, Teddy could have sworn he saw fear leap into the man’s eyes. Marino started as though he had stepped on a rattler where he had expected to find a garden snake, then recovered himself.
“Kind of a funny question to ask a man in these parts, ain’t it?” he sneered.
“Not to my notion. But if you want to keep it to yourself, that’s your lookout. The days when a gunman could come West and get a job on a ranch without any one bothering about him until he let daylight into some peaceful citizen, are gone forever.”
“An’ who wants a job on your place, anyhow?”
“That’s not the point. You’re on our land, and you were one of the hands of the X Bar X. As long as you stay here you’ve got to watch your step. What was the idea of toting that thing around?” Teddy nodded toward the long knife, gleaming on the ground a few feet away.