“If old Nebby once puts his foot in yer face,” said Nomad, “man, you’ll know thet the little love tap I handed ye wa’n’t jes’ nothin’ at all! And what would ye expect? Was I goin’ to stand still and let ye kill me? You’ve got me now; and so I cal’late I can’t help myself.”
Snaky Pete, for it was he, drew a knife.
“I’m tempted to slice ye into mince meat!” he gasped.
“I wouldn’t,” said Nomad coolly; “fer I’ll tell ye right now that I’m too old and tough ter make good mince meat out of.”
The man turned around, fierce in his manner as an enraged grizzly.
“Where’s Pool Clayton?” he snarled.
A young man, a mere stripling, stepped forth from the vociferating crowd.
“Here!” he said.
Nomad looked at him by the light of the fire. He saw a youth of comely appearance, yet with a certain hardness of face that showed a desperate attempt at recklessness.
“You’ve been braggin’ of yer nerve,” said Snaky Pete to the youth. “Hyer’s yer chance to show it!”