“Row on in the orfice o’ the Delmonico,” panted Sim Pierce. “Jake Phelps, Hank’s cousin er somethin’, is rowin’ it with Nate Dunbar. I reckon ye kin stop it, muy pronto, Buffler Bill. Hustle in an’ stop ’em afore they git ter drorin’ hardware an’ throwin’ lead.”
The scout started for the office at a run.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE QUARREL.
The scout reached the door of the office, only to be grabbed by one of the men who had been standing there and looking in, but who had now retired with others to a safer position.
“Keep away!” breathed the man. “They’ve got their shooters out, an’ there’ll be fireworks in a brace o’ shakes. If you go in there you’ll be right in the middle of the celebration.”
“That’s where I want to be,” answered the scout, shaking the hand from his arm, “and I want to get in there before the celebration begins.”
He stepped to the door and looked in.
Nate Dunbar and Jake Phelps were standing no more than a dozen feet apart, Phelps with his back to the counter and Dunbar across the room.
Furious anger burned in the face of Jake Phelps. In Dunbar’s face there was only determination—but it was deadly.
Each man held a revolver in his right hand, and each watched like a cat for the first move of the other to lift his weapon. Only a hair’s breadth separated these men from rash and ugly work.