“It’s a big country,” Y.D. answered. “It’s a plumb big country, for sure, an’ I guess a man can be a stranger in some corners of it, can’t he?”
Y.D. began to resent the other man’s close scrutiny of his brand.
“Well, what’s wrong with it?” he demanded.
“Oh, nothing. No offense. I just wondered what ‘Y.D.’ might stand for.”
“Might stand for Yankee devil,” said Y.D., with a none-of-your-business curl of his lip. But he had carried his curtness too far, and was not prepared for the quick retort.
“Might also stand for yellow dog, and be damned to you!” The stranger’s strong figure sat up stern and knit in his saddle.
Y.D.‘s hand went to his hip, but the other man was unarmed. You can’t draw on a man who isn’t armed.
“Listen!” the older man continued, in sharp, clear-cut notes. “You are a stranger not only to our trails, but our customs. You are a young man. Let me give you some advice. First—get rid of that artillery. It will do you more harm than good. And second, when a stranger speaks to you civilly, answer him the same. My name is Wilson—Frank Wilson, and if you settle in the foothills you’ll find me a decent neighbor, as soon as you are able to appreciate decency.”
To his own great surprise, Y.D. took his dressing down in silence. There was a poise in Wilson’s manner that enforced respect. He recognized in him the English rancher of good family; usually a man of fine courtesy within reasonable bounds; always a hard hitter when those bounds are exceeded. Y.D. knew that he had made at least a tactical blunder; his sensitiveness about his brand would arouse, rather than allay, suspicion. His cheeks burned with a heat not of the afternoon sun as he submitted to this unaccustomed discipline, but he could not bring himself to express regret for his rudeness.
“Well, now that the shower is over, we’ll move on,” he said, turning his back on Wilson and “clucking” to his horse.