“By gum, he's off his nut!” said Peters, seriously. “He's as crazy as a bed-bug.”
“It's my opinion he's jest comin' to his senses,” Pole mused, a troubled look in his eyes. “Yes, that's about it; he's jest wakin' up, an' the whole county will know it, too. By gum, I hate this—I hate it!”
“You hate what?” asked Peters, his eyes on the farmer, who was now quite near them. Pole made no reply, for Wade was by his side on the brick walk beneath the wooden shed in front of the store, his revolver swinging at his side.
“You fellows keep yore eye on that envelope,” said Wade, and he cocked his revolver.
“Look here, don't make a damn fool o' yorese'f,” said Pole Baker, and he laid a remonstrating hand on the iron arm of the gaunt mountaineer. “You know it's agin the ordinance. You know you'll git into trouble; you listen to the advice of a friend. Put up that gun an' go home!”
“I'm my own boss, damn it!” snarled the man with the weapon.
“Yes, an' a dern fool, too,” answered Baker.
“Well, that's my lookout.” Wade glared over his shoulder into the store and raised his voice significantly. “I want to show this damn town how easy it will be fer me to put three shots into the blackest heart that ever pumped human blood.”
“You'd better mind what yo're about, Jeff Wade.” Pole Baker was pale, his lips were tight, his eyes flashing.
“I know what I'm about. I'm tryin' to draw a coward from his den. I'm not shore—I'm not dead shore, mind you—but I'm mighty nigh it. Ef the guilty stand an' hear what I'm a-sayin' an' don't take it up, they are wuss than hell-tainted. You watch that white mark.”