“Can’t I?” The New Yorker’s lip curled in a sneer. “Says you.”
“Says I.” Black’s steady gaze did not waver a thousandth part of an inch.
Cig spoke to Prowers, jerking the thumb of his left hand toward the cowpuncher. “What’s eatin’ this black bird? He claims to be sore at this Reed guy, same as we are. He ain’t above stampedin’ cattle onto sleepin’ men and croakin’ ’em. Mebbe he’s yellow an’ gettin’ ready to rap to the bulls. Mebbe—”
The quid of tobacco stood out in Black’s cheek like a marble. His jaws had stopped moving. He, too, addressed the old cattleman.
“Call off this wolf of yore’s, Jake, onless you want him sent to Kingdom Come. Nobody can tell me I’m yellow without a come-back,” he said in a low, even voice.
Prowers had been watching them both, curious, vigilant, small intent eyes sweeping from one to the other as the quarrel progressed. Now he spoke, curtly, first to the homesteader, then to the crook.
“Don’t pull yore picket pin, Don. That’ll be enough, Cig. I don’t need any demonstration.”
Black did not for an instant relax his rigid wariness. “Tha’s what I’m waitin’ to find out, Jake. He said I was yellow an’ gettin’ ready to squeal.”
“Back water, you,” the ranchman ordered Cig.
Cig hesitated, still defiant. “I ain’t lookin’ for no trouble—”