In the smoke that filled the room Somers had missed his aim, and the Texan was now entirely concealed from him.
“Leave the house!” shouted Somers.
“Not till I git my whiskey, if I knows it. I hain’t killed the old man; didn’t mean to kill him; only skeer him a little. May be you mought be willing to fotch on the whiskey now, squire.”
“I have none, as I told you before,” replied Mr. Callicot, who, finding he was not wounded, had, under cover of smoke, taken down the rifle from the beckets on the wall. “Now you will leave my house.”
“Come, squire, don’t be techy, but fotch on the whiskey,” said Skinley, evidently not pleased with the new aspect of affairs.
“Leave my house!” replied the old man, with dignity.
Skinley, finding that it was of no use to argue the point, slowly backed out at the door by which he had entered.
“Shoot him, Somers,” said he.
“You deserve to be shot yourself for this outrage,” added Somers, indignantly.
“That ain’t handsome, Somers. But we can’t stop no longer,” continued the Texan, as he left the house, and walked towards his horse.