“Go ’way!” ordered Phelps, glaring. “If you haven’t got any business here, go ’way. Can’t you see it’s my busy day?”
“It’s my busy day, too,” returned the scout. “This is far from being a social call. Your name is Phelps?”
“That’s my name.”
“And yours”—the scout leveled a glance at the man in black—“is Benner?”
“Yes,” answered Benner, “if it means anything to you. But I don’t want to talk, and I don’t want any stranger butting in here. Phelps owns this place, and he’s ordered you out. Make yourself scarce.”
“If you don’t make yourself scarce,” declared Benner, “I’ll yell for some of my cowboys. They’ll handle you rough, but if you don’t go on my order you’ll bring it on yourself.”
The hands of both barons were now searching unsteadily for firearms. Fearing that one of them might lay hands on a six-shooter and accidentally work some havoc with it, the scout took time by the forelock and developed one of his own weapons.
“I reckon we’d better understand each other right from the start,” said he. “I came here to talk business, and I’m not going to leave until the business is settled. The cowboys outside are not going to interfere with us, and if one of you men lifts his voice to call for help, there’ll be fireworks—and the celebration will be mine, not yours. Hold out your hands.”
Both barons sputtered wrathfully.
“No man,” fumed Phelps, “can come into my house and draw a gun on me. By thunder, I won’t have it!”