Each of the men carried a pair of revolvers hung to his belt. The most drunken one was a large, swearing, swaggering ruffian who was addressed by the other as "Cap." The one named "Joe" was smaller and apparently more sober and wore an old cavalry jacket.
As they walked around the team we heard an ominous growl from our dog, Found. The big fellow stepped back and laid a hand on the butt of one of his pistols, and Jack quickly grasped the handle of his own weapon and took a step or two in the direction of the drunken ruffian, keeping his eyes on the fellow's pistol hand. "Cap" saw the movement and turned toward Jack, still with his hand on his pistol, and remarked with an oath:
"Mister, ef that dog tries to bite me he dies."
"Then there'll be two dogs die," returned Jack quietly, looking the fellow in the eye.
I kept a close watch of the motions of Joe, but he made no threatening gestures and seemed waiting to see what his leader would do.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the drunken blusterer of Jack.
"I mean," replied the Irishman quietly, "that if you keep away from that team and attend to your own business the dog'll not hurt you; but you draw a gun to shoot him, an'—well, you heard my remark."
Instead of resenting Jack's ultimatum, the big fellow turned to his henchman and said:
"Joe, these men don't appear to have heard of me. Tell 'em who I am," and then disappeared into the store.
Joe stepped up to Jack and said in a confidential way: