Nevada slightly changed his position. “Beady, I’ve had a couple of drinks an’ ain’t very clear-headed,” drawled Nevada. “Would you mind talkin’ so I can understand you?”
“Bah! You savvy all right,” declared Jones, sarcastically. “I’m tellin’ you straight what I’ve been layin’ to tell your yaller-headed Texas pard.”
“Now you’re speakin’ English, Beady. Tex an’ me are pards, shore. An’ I’ll take it kind of you to get this talk out of your system. You seem to be chock full.”
“You bet I’m full an’ I’m goin’ to bust,” shouted Jones, whose temper evidently could not abide the slow, cool speech with which he had been answered.
“Wal, before you bust, explain what you mean by Springer’s outfit not ridin’ around drift-fences.”
“Easy. You just cut through wire-fences,” retorted Jones.
“Beady, I hate to call you a low-down liar, but that’s what you are.”
“You’re another,” yelled Jones. “I seen your Texas Jack cut our drift-fence.” Nevada struck out with remarkable swiftness and force. He knocked Jones over upon a card-table, with which he crashed to the floor. Jones was so stunned that he did not recover before some of his comrades rushed to him, and helped him up. Then, black in the face and cursing savagely, he jerked for his gun. He got it out, but before he could level it, two of his friends seized him, and wrestled with him, talking in earnest alarm. But Jones fought them.
“You blame fool,” finally yelled one of them. “He’s not packin’ a gun. It’d be murder.”
That brought Jones to his senses, though certainly not to calmness. “Mister Nevada—next time you hit town you’d better come heeled,” he hissed between his teeth.