He did not say any more, but his hand tightened on the stock of his rifle and with the other he loosened one of his two pistols, worn in belt holsters, and glanced at Tom in the dim light. Tom was too intent on the scene in the square to observe Bill’s half intent to give him a weapon which, did need arise, Tom’s training during the trip would enable him to use effectively.
Henry, his muscles responding poorly to his befuddled will, staggered upright and, wavering a little, faced Toosa.
“Get out of here!” he roared. “What do you mean, you red dog, by interfering with a white man’s pleasure!”
“What did he say?” Tom asked as Toosa made a curt response.
“Something to the effect that the white man’s ‘pleasure’ was the Indians’ ruin!” Bill told him.
“It is, too,” agreed Tom. “I’m with Toosa, all the way.”
Henry was not with Toosa, but very much against him! He stood, shakily but with fury growing in his face, a white man of the lowest sort, in maudlin rage defying a red man of the higher type of intelligence. It passed through Tom’s mind that by comparison, the red man was the finer specimen, dwarf or not.
“I’ll teach—teach you—to—” gulped Henry, and he bent down for his rifle, lying on the ground.
Bill’s muscles tensed, and he was about to leap forward, his own weapon ready; but Tom held his arm, and whispered, “Wait!”
“But—” began Bill, but what transpired caused him to hesitate.