It was stone-hard fair play without quarter, and when it was over Bossick rose, a bloody and disheveled figure, and glared at the riders.
“Take him home,” he said, “to your rustlers’ nest, you —— —— ——!”
“That’s fighting talk, Bossick,” said Caldwell in a thin voice, “but this ain’t th’ time or place.”
“You’re damn right, it ain’t!” said Bossick, “not when there’s even numbers and no odds for you! You’ll wait for dark and one man alone—like Price Selwood was.”
Sud Provine, getting dizzily to his feet, shot a lightning glance at the speaker. His pulped face lost a shade of color. No one spoke and Bossick went on.
“When Selwood comes round I’m layin’ there’s goin’ to be such a stir-up as this country never saw—and don’t you forget it!”
“Comes round?” said Caldwell, as if the words were jerked from him against his will.
“Yes—comes round so he can talk—can tell what he knows of the rustlers of Nameless and who was the dirty skunk that shot him in the back. There’s a good coil rope inside this store that’s going to make history for the Deep Heart cattle country.”
“Hell!” said Caldwell, and laughed in a high thin treble as he pulled his horse around, “you’re amusin’, Bossick.”
“Yes,” snapped Bossick balefully, “your whole bunch seems quite hilarious. Now, get out of Cordova.”