Without a moment’s hesitation, Buffalo Bill sprang into the room and placed himself squarely between Dunbar and Jake Phelps.
“I reckon this has gone far enough,” said he curtly.
“Buffalo Bill!” exclaimed Dunbar. “Get away, amigo, and give me my chance at that hound!”
Dunbar’s voice, husky with pent-up passion, rang surprisingly in the scout’s ears. He had not much time to remark upon the depth of the young rancher’s feeling, however, before his keen eye caught a hostile move of Jake Phelps’ right hand.
In the wizardry of six-shooter practice, Buffalo Bill was second to none. Jake Phelps was perhaps a fraction of a second in lifting his revolver, yet, in that brief period of time, the scout had drawn—not only his own revolver, but also a very effectual “bead.”
“Down with that hand!” he ordered. “Don’t you dare say no to me!”
The compelling voice of the scout, no less than the bewildering magic that loaded his right hand with a six-shooter, caused Jack Phelps to gasp. From sheer amazement he suffered the hand to drop.
“That’s right,” said the scout, “but see that you keep that hand where it is. Just remember, Jake Phelps, that what I miss in the original deal I always make up in the draw. You’re a friend of mine, Nate?”
He kept his back to Dunbar and his eyes on Phelps as he asked the question.
“Great guns,” cried the young rancher, “don’t I owe you about everything I’ve got in the world?”