"Oh, is he?" sneered the joker. "I tell you what, young feller, it would take a big man to chew up Montana Bill's little finger."
Harmer burst out laughing.
"So you're Montana Bill, are you?" said he.
"I am," answered Bill as gravely as if it were a kingly title.
"Well, then, old Hank said he could eat you up without pepper or salt. He's as mad at you as a man can be; says he's been practicing shooting all the winter on purpose to do you up, and he puts a new edge on his knife every morning."
"That'll do, young feller," put in Mac, seeing that Bill was getting in a rage, and knowing that he was just the man to have a row with a youngster. "You're a little too fast, you are. My name's Mackintosh, if you want anyone of that name."
"Do I want you!" cried Harmer anxiously; "of course I do! Do you know where Ticehurst is?"
"Yes," replied Mac; while I stood close beside Harmer looking down at the fire so that he couldn't see my face—I was laughing so.
"Then where is he? Hang it! has anything happened to him that you fellows make such a mystery about it?" he asked getting a little alarmed, as I could tell by the tone of his voice.
"Well," replied Mac quietly, "I'll tell you. He was up in the hills with me, and we struck it rich—got a lot of gold, we did, you bet we did," he went on in an irritating drawl; "and then came down when the snow flew. We had such a time getting out, young feller, and then at last we came to the Columbia and there——"