The scout put up his revolver. Phelps was still armed, but the scout looked him squarely in the eye and he made no attempt to use his weapon.
“You’ve got your pay-roll money, have you?” went on Buffalo Bill.
“What business is that of——”
“That’s going far enough. I’ll give you five minutes to get out of town.”
“Ho!” glowered Jake. “You the boss of this town? You got more ter say about things in Hackamore than the sheriff?”
“Never mind that. If you’re not out of town in five minutes, I’ll go gunning for you myself.”
“I’ll take a shot at that meachin’ whelp behind you yet!” gritted Jake. “He can’t make any dead-set at me without getting all that’s coming. I’ll have his scalp, that’s what I’ll have. I’m going to make a widder of Mrs. Dunbar, and then Lige Benner——”
The scout jumped at Phelps, grabbed him by the shoulders, and flung him bodily toward the door. Old Nomad stepped aside and helped him out of the room with a kick. The clerk, who had been on hands and knees behind the counter, carried out Phelps’ saddlebags and threw them after him.
From the hitching pole, where his horse was tied, Jake Phelps swore and howled his threats.
“I’ll square up with you for all this, my buck!” shouted Nate Dunbar, from a window.