“Yes, but——”
“If you know anything at all, you certainly knew old Sawyer’s cripple wasn’t leading.”
“I saw Rouser take up a track. It’s your dog that mixed in and interfered—if that is your dog.”
“You bet he’s mine! Just bought him for a fancy price, too, and I don’t propose to have him spoiled by Sawyer’s worthless brute. I’ll settle it. Come here, Silver Tongue—come away and give me a chance.”
His gun half lifted and ready for use, Barker attempted to call his own dog away from the other. Divining the fellow’s purpose, Rod Grant took three hasty strides, placing himself between Rouser and Barker.
“Get out of the way!” snarled Barker. “If you don’t you’ll have a chance to pick some shot out of your legs.”
The brown eyes of the boy from Texas glowed strangely, and he also held his shotgun ready for use.
“If I were in your place, my friend,” he said, “I wouldn’t try to shoot old Rouser; for just as sure as you do you’ll have a chance to bury your own dog.”
He meant it, too; there could be no doubt about that. Nor was he in the slightest degree intimidated by the menacing weapon in Barker’s hands. Shivering, Springer held his breath and watched those two lads gazing steadily into each other’s eyes. At length Phil managed to speak.
“Quit it, bub-both of you!” he spluttered. “Be careful with those guns!”