“You’ll have to get Buffalo Bill’s permission to call your soul your own before you do,” taunted Jake, tying the bags to the saddle, mounting, and spurring away.
Dunbar turned to the scout with a gloomy face.
“Amigo,” said he, “it would have been better if you’d let me had it out with that skunk.”
“There was nothing to the row, Nate,” the scout answered. “Phelps has had too much red eye, and you lost your temper too easily. Have you finished your work here?”
“Yes.”
“Then you’d better ride for the Star-A ranch, Nate. And don’t forget yourself and take the trail to the Phelps outfit.”
“You know me too well for that,” answered the young rancher. “When I say I’ll do a thing don’t I generally do it?”
“You do,” returned the scout gravely, “and that’s what makes Nate Dunbar stack up so high with me. You’ll leave Jake Phelps alone?”
“Yes.”
“Thet’s ther tork, pard,” approved old Nomad. “Even a measley, no-’count yaller pup like Jake Phelps kin shoot. It would be tough on that Hattie girl if you was wiped out. Go home, Nate, an’ tell ’em out thar ter the ranch thet Buffler an’ Pard Nomad hev struck town and aire already at their peacemakin’.”