“Have you purchased it?”
“Neer a mind for that, mister; I’ve made it: that’s my style o’ purchase, an’, by God! it’ll stan’ good, I reck’n. Consarn yur skin! what hev you got to do wi’t anyhow?”
“This,” I replied, still struggling to keep calm, at the same time taking the title-deeds from my saddle-bags—“this only, Mr Holt. That your house stands upon Section Number 9; that I have bought that section from the United States government; and must therefore demand of you, either to use your pre-emption, right, or deliver the land over to me. Here is the government grant—you may examine it, if you feel so inclined.”
An angry oath was the response, or rather a volley of oaths.
“I thort that wur yur bisness,” continued the swearer. “I thort so; but jest this time you’ve kim upon a fool’s errand. Durn the government grant! durn your pre-emption right! an’ durn yur title-papers too! I don’t valley them more’n them thur corn-shucks—I don’t. I’ve got my pre-emption dokyment inside hyur. I’ll jest shew ye that, mister; an’ see how ye’ll like it.”
The speaker turned back into his cabin, and for a moment I lost sight of him.
“Pre-emption document!” he said. Was it possible he had purchased the place, and was gone to fetch his title-deeds?
If so—
My reflection was cut short. In another moment he re-appeared in the doorway; not with any papers in his hand—but, instead, a long rifle, that with its butt resting on the door-stoop, stood almost as high as himself?
“Now, Mister Turn-me-out?” said he, speaking in a satirical triumphant tone, and raising the piece in front of him, “thur’s my title—my pre-emption right’s the right o’ the rifle. It’s clur enuf: ye’ll acknowledge that, won’t ye?”