“Is what this man says the truth?” demanded Tom Gray, turning to Sam.
“This heah land don’t b’long to Hornby. Mebby he grazes his stock heah, but this grass don’t b’long to nobody. We got as much right to graze our stock heah as he has, an’ that’s all that’s to say ’bout it.”
“You have your answer, Mr. Man. I don’t know your game, but it is my opinion that you are not only what this gentleman has called you, but that you are bad medicine as well,” declared Tom Gray, looking the caller squarely in the eyes.
“Meanin’ that I’m a liar?”
“I reckon that’s about the size of it.”
“Get out of here!” commanded Hippy sharply. “We can take care of ourselves.”
The stranger’s hand flew to his holster, but there the hand paused.
“Easy thar! Don’t draw,” warned Sam whose own right hand hovered near his weapon. “It ain’t safe. You might hurt somebody, or mebby I might hurt you, an’ that wouldn’t do nohow before these young women who don’t like to see a feller git hurt. But if you’ve got to draw, pint your gun this way an’ mebby I ain’t too old or my rheumatiz ain’t too crinkly so that I can’t dodge yer bullet.”
The stranger’s hand closed over the butt of his revolver and half drew the weapon from its holster. It drew no further, for the fellow suddenly found himself facing Sam’s weapon, which had been drawn with a speed that must have been a revelation to him, because his face reflected amazement, as well as rage.
“If ye must shoot that gun off, take my advice an’ come ’round in the daytime when ye can see better, an’ we’ll fit it out man to man. But git! This ain’t no company fer a feller like you who can’t talk without a gun in his hand. Be ye goin’?”