“I’ll be at home when you call,” replied McCloud, quietly, picking up his rifle, and pocketing his cartridges.
Somebody near the stove said, “Go fur him!” to Byram, and the young road-master glared at McCloud.
“He was a-sparkin’ Ellie Elton,” added Tansey, grinning; “yew owe him a few for that, too, Byram.”
Byram turned white, but made no movement. McCloud laughed.
“Wait,” said the game-warden, sitting behind the stove; “jest wait awhile; that’s all. No man can fire me into a ditch full o’ stinging nettles an’ live to larf no pizened larf at me!”
“Dingman,” said McCloud, contemptuously, “you’re like the rest of them here in Foxville—all foxes who run to earth when they smell a Winchester.”
He flung his rifle carelessly into the hollow of his left arm; the muzzle was in line with the game-warden, and that official promptly moved out of range, upsetting his chair in his haste.
“Quit that!” bawled the storekeeper, from behind his counter.
“Quit what—eh?” demanded McCloud. “Here, you old rat, give me the whiskey bottle! Quick! What? Money to pay? Trot out that grog or I’ll shoot your lamps out!”
“He’s been a-drinkin’ again,” whispered the game-warden. “Fur God’s sake, give him that bottle, somebody!”