“Snarlin’ catermounts!” fumed the trapper. “Ef ye don’t make him eat thet cigyar ye ain’t no friend o’ mine.”
The scout was still smiling.
“Sit down, Bloom.”
The voice was as soft as velvet, but it cut like steel.
The sheriff invited the scout to go to a warmer region than the Brazos, and started to brush by in the direction of the rear door.
Then something happened. It happened with a suddenness that deceived the eye.
One moment Bloom was pushing for the rear door, and the next he was sprawled in a chair, and the scout had the revolver that had been dangling from his belt.
A titter came from the windows, and a whoop from old Nomad.
“Et ain’t well ter fool with We, Us an’ Comp’ny when we’re loaded,” exulted the trapper, “er when we’re out spreadin’ harmony an’ good will up an’ down ther Brazos.”
The sheriff’s face was as black as a thundercloud. He realized fully the ignominy of his position—and, quite as fully, his own helplessness.