"Well, we haven't got as many trees here as you have down in the mountains, and up here they're more valuable."
The last words were unfortunate.
"Looks like you keer a heep fer yo' trees," sneered the mountain boy with a wave of his pistol toward a demolished woodland; "an' if our trees air so wuthless, whut do you furriners come down thar and rob us of 'em fer?"
The sneer, the tone, and the bitter emphasis on the one ugly word turned Gray's face quite red.
"You mustn't say anything like that to me," was his answer, and the self-control in his voice but helped make the mountain boy lose his at once and completely. He rode straight for Gray and pulled in, waving his pistol crazily before the latter's face, and Gray could actually hear the grinding of his teeth.
"Go git yo' gun! Git yo' gun!"
Gray turned very pale, but he showed no fear.
"I don't know what's the matter with you," he said steadily, "but you must be drunk."
"Go git yo' gun!" was the furious answer. "Go git yo' gun!"
"Boys don't fight with guns in this country, but—"