“An’ wher’ should I be, Mr. Jake?” came the half-breed’s sullen retort.
“That ain’t no answer,” the other cried, in a vicious tone.
The half-breed shrugged with apparent indifference, only there was no indifference in the resentful flash of his eyes.
“I not answer to you,” he said, in his broken way, throwing as much insolence as he could into his words.
Jake’s fury needed no urging; the spirit had wound him up to the proper pitch.
“You black son-of-a——,” he cried, “you shall answer to me. For two pins I’d wring your blasted neck, only I’m savin’ that fer the rope. I’ll tell you wher’ you was last night. You wer’ out. Out with the horses. D’you hear? And you weren’t at the Breed camp neither. I know wher’ you was.”
“Guess you shoot your mouth off,” Anton said, with dangerous calmness. “Bah! I tell you I stay right hyar. I not out. You mad! Voilà!”
Suddenly Jake’s hand went up as though to strike the man, but the blow did not fall. His arm dropped to his side again; for once caution saved him. Tresler felt that had the blow fallen there might perhaps have been a sudden and desperate end to the scene. As it was he listened to Jake’s final words, with every nerve throbbing.
“You lie, you black son-of-a——; you lie!”
And then he saw him swing round on his heel and stride away to the rancher’s house, as if he could no longer control himself and sought safety in flight.