"Stranger, I wouldn't do nothin' rash," observed Loudon, squinting along the barrel of his six-shooter. "Drop that shotgun, an' drop her quick."
Loudon's tone was soft, but its menace was not lost on the wild-eyed man. His shotgun thudded on the floor.
"By Gar!" exclaimed Laguerre. "Eet ees——"
"Shut up!" roared Loudon. "I'm seein' just what yo're seein', but there's no call to blat it out!"
For the wild-eyed man was the same individual who had brought the tale of the Hatchet Creek Indian uprising to Farewell. But there was no recognition in the man's eyes, which was not remarkable. Loudon and Laguerre, on that occasion, had been but units in a crowd, and even when they exchanged shots with the fellow the range was too long for features to be noted. Besides, the thick growth of stubble on their faces effectually concealed their identity from any one who did not know them well.
"I'd kind o' elevate my hands, Brother Luke," suggested Loudon. "That's right. Yuh look more ornamental thataway. An' don't shake so much. You ain't half as mad as yo're tryin' to make out. If you was real hot you'd 'a' took a chance an' unhooked that shotgun when yuh come in. Brother Luke, yo're a false alarm—like Skinny."
"Lemme pick up my shotgun, an' I'll show yuh!" clamoured Luke Maxson, whom the purring voice was driving to a frenzy.
"Yuh lost yore best chance, an' chances don't travel in pairs—like brothers."
"Do somethin'! Do somethin'!" chattered Luke.
"No hurry. Don't get het, Brother Luke. If I was to do somethin' yore valuable an' good-lookin' carcass would be damaged. An' I just ain't got the heart to shoot more than one man a day."