The cowpuncher searched his face swiftly for evidences of insolence, and seemed to find none. “That’s the idee, tenderfoot,” he patronized. “When yo’ come to a he-man’s country, you better keep yo’ place. And dodge trouble!”
The others were silent. It was evident to all of them that the lank young puncher was a bad one, inflamed by poisonous liquor, potentially as dangerous as a rattlesnake. He showed a characteristic of one type of half-drunken man—a bitter and unreasoning dislike of an utter stranger.
A still tongue: that was it. The same thought was in every mind. They must truckle to this deadly young bully, truckle and grovel, to get away from Rodeo without a tragedy. He was ripe for murder.
“Uh-huh,” agreed the little man. He surveyed Chihuahua through his amber glasses. “Yes; I try to keep my place. But I don’t like anyone to shove me out of it.”
“For God’s sake, Henry—” began another speaker, a larger one, at Pete’s left hand. His clothing was like the little man’s, except that he wore an army campaign hat instead of the ugly brown canvas.
Chihuahua Pete laid down his knife and fork. A sort of unbelieving jubilation in his manner and his repressed voice, he ignored the man sitting beside him and spoke to the smaller one:
“Say, you little runt, you meanin’ to hint anything?”
“Not hinting—trying to tell you,” was the good-natured reply. “So you’re a bad wolf, are you? And you’re Chihuahua Pete. I suppose they call you that because you skipped to Chihuahua to dodge the draft—hey, Peter! Keep your hand on the counter!”
There was a surprising change in the tone of the last sentence, a whip-like bite of command in it. Chihuahua’s right hand twitched involuntarily, and came up again.