“He ain’t innercent,” cried the cowboy. “He done fer Jake Phelps, an’ us fellers aire here ter git him if we have ter burn the house.”
“Not Nate Dunbar but Red Steve is the man you want.”
“We know who we want, an’ we ain’t goin’ ter waste much more time gittin’ him, nuther.”
“What’s your name?” queried the scout, suddenly changing his tactics.
These men were not in a mood to listen to reason. Impatient yells had come from all around the cabin, demanding that the spokesman stop his talking and do something.
“Prouther,” said the cowboy.
“For whatever happens here, Prouther,” threatened the scout, “I shall hold you and those with you responsible. You’ll not take Nate Dunbar away from us. If you try it, there’ll be shooting; and you men out here will be better targets than those of us who are in the house.”
Two of the other cowboys had dismounted and come to Prouther’s side.
“What good’s all this chinnin’?” growled one.
“He come out ter talk, Klinger,” answered Prouther, “an’ I reckoned we might as well listen.”