“Look here, doc,” fussed Phelps, “you can’t handle me like this.”
“I can’t, hey?” returned the doctor, puffing at his weed. “I’m doing it, Hank, and you say I can’t. Poof! Why, if I wanted to, I could rope, down and tie you. Buffalo Bill says he’s going to settle this mystery about Jake.”
“It ain’t any mystery,” scowled Bloom. “He’s fixed up something to make it look as though Dunbar didn’t——”
There was a tramp of feet. The next moment, Buffalo Bill had Bloom against the wall and was twisting his fingers about his throat.
“Say you didn’t mean that,” said the scout.
The sheriff glared and stuttered.
“Out with it!” went on the scout.
“I—d-d-didn’t mean it——” gurgled Bloom.
“That will do.” Buffalo Bill threw the sheriff from him. “There’s a yellow streak in Bloom, doctor,” he added, “that has to be handled just so.”
“I’ve noticed it before,” agreed the doctor. “Bloom means well—sometimes—but he’s got a poor way of showing it—at all times. However, he ain’t such a bad sheriff, where his personal likes and dislikes don’t get tangled up with his duty. Don’t get sore, Bloom,” he added, to the sheriff; “I felt like doing the same thing to you when your mouth went off like that. Watch yourself, man, or your tongue will do harm for you.”