"Well, mebbe I do. Say I do. I ain't yet met up with a man can beat me when I'm right. But at that Ranse was a mighty good man. They bushwhacked him, I'll bet a stack of blues. I aim to git busy soon as I find out who done it."
The red-headed man raised his voice a trifle. "Say, you kid—there at the table—come here an' hold these ropes! See you don't let the hawses at the other end of 'em git away!"
Slowly the boy turned, pushing his chair round so that he half-faced the group before the bar. He neither rose nor answered.
"Cayn't you-all hear?" demanded the man with the shock of unkempt, red hair.
"I hear, but I'm not comin' right away. When I do, you'll wish I hadn't."
If a bomb had exploded at his feet Hugh Roush could not have been more surprised. He was a big, rough man, muscular and sinewy, and he had been the victor of many a rough-and-tumble fight. On account of his reputation for quarrelsomeness men chose their words carefully when they spoke to him. That this little fellow with the smooth, girlish face and the small, almost womanish hands and feet should defy him was hard to believe.
"Come a-runnin', kid, or I'll whale the life out of you!" he roared.
"You didn't get me right," answered the boy in a low, clear voice. "I'm not comin' till I get ready, Hugh Roush."
The wolf snap of the boy's jaw, the cold glitter in his eyes, might have warned Roush and perhaps did. He wondered, too, how this stranger knew his name so well.
"Where are you from?" he demanded.