“The incident is now clo-o-sed if Miss Roberta is satisfied,” Dud announced to the public at large.
His riding mate looked at Hollister. “Don’t call me that,” he said.
For a moment Dud was puzzled. “Don’t call you what?”
“What you just called me.”
Dud broke into a grin of delight. He wondered if it would not be a good idea to make Bob give him a licking, too. But he decided to let good enough alone. He judged that Blister would be satisfied without any more gore. Anyhow, Bob might weaken and spoil it.
“Boy, I’ll never call you Miss—what I called you—long as I live exceptin’ when I’m meanin’ to compliment you special.” Dud slapped him hard between the shoulder blades. “You’re a young cyclone, but you can’t get a chance to muss Dud Hollister up to-night. You work too rapid. Doggone my hide, if I ever did see a faster or a better piece o’ work. How about it, Tom?”
Reeves, too, pounded Dillon in token of friendship. If Bob had not wiped the slate clean he had made a start in that direction.
“You’re some scrapper when you get started. Bandy looks like he’s been through a railroad wreck,” he said.
Bandy was by this time at the wash-basin repairing damages. “Tell you he jumped me when I wasn’t lookin’,” he growled sulkily. “Fine business. You-all stood by an’ watched him do it.”
“After you’d deviled him for a week,” amended Big Bill. “Mebbe in that outfit of he-men you’re expectin’ to hit the trail for to-morrow they’ll wrop you up in cotton an’ not let a hundred-an’-thirty-pound giant jump you.”