"Does the team belong to you?" demanded Matt.
"Yas, he b'long to me. I left him by de store, an' he git scare' an' make a run off. Carramba! He bust my wagon all up. I take care of de girl, señor. She hurt, huh?"
The other Mexican, scarcely giving a look at the girl, passed on to the horses and began to pound them with a stick that he was carrying. His attack was so brutal that Clip grabbed the stick out of his hand, and would have laid it over his back if Chub had not interfered.
"Cut it out, Clip," said Chub. "The greaser don't know any better. About half o' these wood-haulers ain't any more'n half-baked."
"He'll have the team running again," scowled Clipperton. "He ought to have some sense pounded into him."
Meanwhile, Matt, paying no heed to the other Mexican, had picked up the little girl and was carrying her toward the gate. The Mexican ran after him and grabbed his arm.
"You gif her to me!" he shouted.
"This is the most ungrateful outfit of greasers I ever met up with," cried Clip, hurrying toward the second man. "That'll do for you!" he said angrily, catching the fellow by the collar and throwing him back.
The Mexican whirled, his little eyes glittering like a snake's. One hand darted toward the breast of his coat.
"Look out Clip!" warned Chub. "He's going to pull a knife on you."