"'Ware rattlesnakes!" shouted Arrapahoe Bill, with a grim chuckle; and then, knowing that the victim of this awful jest was beyond all fear of snakes, the three men laughed. Yet even while the Blackguard relished the flavour of the joke came its bitter aftertaste, which froze the grin on his face and made him follow Mr. Ramsay.
"Look here," he said, coming to where his charge leaned shaking against a tree, "don't be a fool! That dish, my Emerald, was venison, the meat of the cariboo, of the reindeer. You know what venison is?"
The Englishman turned slowly, looking over his shoulder with a glance of scorn and rage. "I know what you are," he said in a low even voice,—"I know what you are now."
"A blackguard, yes, I know. And yet—and yet—you needn't make such a fuss about it."
The Englishman turned full upon him, quite quiet, though the sweat stood upon his forehead in white drops. "I am a Tenderfoot—you laugh at me—think I'm afraid of you. I don't know your ways here, but I've read of them in books. There is one thing in common between us two. Will you fight?"
"No,—you're too small."
"I don't mean with fists. Go and borrow for me a revolver from those friends of yours—you have your own."
"You're a brave man," said the Blackguard, bantering, "but you see, my dear fellow, I can't fight, because my business is to keep you out of mischief."
"You needn't try to shuffle out of it now—fetch that revolver."
"Little stranger, I am a dead shot, I have killed men—worse luck—before now; while you never fired a gun in all your life."