But the Indian was not through with the white man. He turned on him again.
"If you think the bank lied when it said eighteen cents, there is a telephone. Call up the cashier at his home. He sent me here to tell the white men and Indians who are our clients. Ask him for yourself."
Lamson and the three buyers noted the words "Our clients." To Lamson it brought identification of the Indian as Johnny Kitsap, the clerk; to the buyers it was just mysterious enough to be alarming.
"Confound the cashier! All he knows is what somebody else has told him."
"Mr. Lamson, do you yourself think that fourteen cents for hops to-day is a fair price?" asked Kitsap, suddenly taking a conciliatory tone.
"Certainly I do. But if I want to buy hops at fourteen cents now and hold them on a speculation, it's my own business."
"Entirely," said the Indian. "But I believe your conduct with the ranchers who have agreed to sell is based on your statement that you had already sold your own hops to these buyers from St. Louis for fourteen cents."
"That's right," said Lamson boldly. "I can sell my hops for what I like."
"Liar," said Kitsap, "you have not sold your hops."
Lamson sprang to his feet, but the big rancher put out a big hand and shoved him back.