"Thanks, no," he said, and walked out, his spurs jingling.
"I guess he won't bother us again," said Bob, returning to Welton.
The latter laughed, a trifle ashamed of his anger.
"Those fellows give me the creeps," he said, "like cats do some people. Mossbacks don't know no better, but a Government grafter is a little more useless than a nigger on a sawlog."
He went out. Bob turned to Merker.
"Sorry for the row," he said briefly, for he liked the gentle, slow man. "But they're a bad lot. We've got to keep that crew at arm's length for our own protection."
"Ross Fletcher is not that kind," protested Merker. "I've known him for years."
"Well, he's got a nerve to come in here. I've seen him and his kind holding down too good a job next old Austin's bar."
"Not Ross," protested Merker again. "He's a worker. He's just back now from the high mountains. Mr. Orde, if you've got a minute, sit down. I want to tell you about Ross."
Willing to do what he could to soften Merker's natural feeling, Bob swung himself to the counter, and lit his pipe.