“You were mighty considerate about my dusty throat,” he began with heavy sarcasm; “I ought to have seen at the time that you had it made up between you. This is the second time that you have broken in on me, Makimmon. I’m not a boy any longer. You can’t tread on me. It’s going to stop ... now.”
“There’s nothing for you to get excited about, Buck. Miss Beggs and I took a little stroll while you were away.”
“A ‘little stroll.’” Buckley produced a heavy gold watch, the highly chased cover of which he snapped back. “Over half an hour,” he proclaimed; “you stayed too long this time.”
Gordon was aware of a form at his back. He turned, and saw Tol’able.
“What’s the trouble, Gord?” the latter asked. Two or three others were compactly grouped behind him.
“Why, Buckley’s hot because I walked with Miss Beggs while he took a drink.”
The men about Buckley Simmons closed up. “Don’t let Gordon crowd you down,” they advised their principal; “put it up against him.”
“Haven’t you got enough at home,” Buckley demanded, “without playing around here?”
Anger swiftly rose to Gordon Makimmon’s head. His hand fell and remained close by his side. “Keep your tongue off my home,” he commanded harshly, “or you will get more than a horsewhipping.”
“By God,” Buckley articulated. His face changed from dark to pale, his mouth opened, his eyes were staring. He fumbled desperately in his pocket. Gordon’s hand closed smoothly, instantly, about the handle of his revolver. But, before he could level it, an arm shot out from behind him, and a stone the size of two fists sped like a bullet, striking Buckley Simmons where his hair and forehead joined. Gordon, in a species of shocked curiosity and surprise, clearly saw the stone hit the other. There was a sound like that made by a heel breaking a scum of ice on a frozen road.