“It wasn’t so much what he said about you as the way he said it.”
In the West there are some things a man has to say with a smile—if he would avoid gun play.
“Anything else, Nate?” asked the scout.
“Well, he remarked that Dick Perry was a blackguard an——”
“Waugh!” came from the door. “Did he refer ter me with any o’ his fool talk, Nate?”
“No.”
“I’m relieved a hull lot,” grinned the trapper. “Ef he’d er called me a goat, er somethin’ like thet, I mout hev shot him up.”
“Got anything to tell us, Jake?” asked the scout.
“Well, yes,” answered Jake; “you fellers over at the Star-A ranch are a lot of measley tin horns. You can put up a good front, but your work is all rhinecaboo. I rode into town after the H-P pay-roll, and strolled in here to stuff the coin into my saddlebags. I saw Dunbar. What I said, I said so as to show this town he ain’t half a man.” Jake Phelps laughed, and looked around in a cheap attempt at bravado. “He dassen’t fight. Everybody can see that.”
“Anybody can see with half an eye that Nate Dunbar has you beat a mile in everything that makes a man a man. You’re nine-tenths pure guff, Jake, and the other tenth is just plain dog.”