“How does thet hit ye?” he asked truculently.
“There’s more’n one door,” grunted the sheriff, moving toward the dining-room entrance.
The scout got up and barred the way in that direction. For an instant the sheriff glared, one hand half starting toward his hip.
“I have only the most peaceable intentions, Bloom,” said the scout, as pleasantly as possible. “There’s a little matter I want to talk over with you.”
“There ain’t any matter, little or big, that I want to talk over with you,” snapped Bloom.
“This has to do with your business. From what you’ve just been saying, you’re mighty particular to attend to your own business, seems to me.”
The sheriff grunted and swept his eyes toward the two windows. In each opening were framed as many excited faces as could crowd into it. Bloom felt that the eyes of the town were upon him, that his prestige would suffer if he did not in some way stir himself.
“Sit down,” proceeded the scout; “have a cigar and we’ll smoke a talk.”
There was a friendly smile on Buffalo Bill’s face as he held out a weed.
With a muttered oath the sheriff grabbed the cigar, crushed it in his thick fingers, and flung it in the scout’s face. A gasp came from the faces in the windows.