“Lay close,” he whispered.
He stood straight, advanced two paces and halted. He brought the old gun up so that the muzzles of the two barrels were in line with the heads of the intruders and in plain sight and the butt was within a few inches of the business position in the hollow of his right shoulder.
“How do. Fine day,” he said.
Old Tim Hood of Hood’s Ferry and Mel Lunt the local constable stopped dead in their tracks as if they were already shot. They didn’t even lower their rifles from their shoulders. Their startled brains worked just sufficiently to warn them that a move of that kind might not be safe. For a few seconds they stared at Noel in silence. Then Tim Hood spoke in a formidable voice that matched his square-cut whiskers.
“What d’ye mean by p’intin’ that there gun at us?” he asked.
“What it look like it mean?” returned Noel.
“That’s all right, Tim,” said Mel Lunt. “He’s a friend of mine.”
“T’ell ye say!” retorted Noel.
“Well, ye know me, I guess. I was up to yer place on French River. I’m the constable, don’t ye mind? Me an’ Sheriff Brown was up there.”
“Sure t’ing, Lunt. What you want now?”