“Don’t yer tech it, Somers,” said the Texan, angrily.
Somers took the paper, glanced at it, and handed it back to the owner.
“Are you satisfied?” asked the old man.
“I am.”
“That ain’t handsome, Somers. Bekase you don’t drink whiskey, it’s onreasonable that you should spile my drink. But I’m gwine to hev my liquor. Now, squire, will yer fotch on the whiskey, or won’t yer?”
“I would if I had any.”
“But yer hev,” said Skinley, raising his pistol; and before Somers could realize that he intended to fire, he discharged the piece at Mr. Callicot.
“O, my father!” screamed his daughter, rushing towards him.
“What do you mean, you villain?” cried Somers, elevating his pistol, and instantly firing.
“See here, Somers; that ain’t handsome,” replied Skinley. “I didn’t tech you.”