“If I ever do, Pat, you’ll need to be carried off,” replied Stewart. “Just now I’m politely inviting you and your deputy sheriffs to leave.”
“We’ll go; but we’re comin’ back one of these days, an’ when we do we’ll put you in irons.”
“Hawe, if you’ve got it in that bad for me, come over here in the corral and let’s fight it out.”
“I’m an officer, an’ I don’t fight outlaws an’ sich except when I hev to make arrests.”
“Officer! You’re a disgrace to the county. If you ever did get irons on me you’d take me some place out of sight, shoot me, and then swear you killed me in self-defense. It wouldn’t be the first time you pulled that trick, Pat Hawe.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Hawe, derisively. Then he started toward the horses.
Stewart’s long arm shot out, his hand clapped on Hawe’s shoulder, spinning him round like a top.
“You’re leaving, Pat, but before you leave you’ll come out with your play or you’ll crawl,” said Stewart. “You’ve got it in for me, man to man. Speak up now and prove you’re not the cowardly skunk I’ve always thought you. I’ve called your hand.”
Pat Hawe’s face turned a blackish-purple hue.
“You can jest bet thet I’ve got it in fer you,” he shouted, hoarsely. “You’re only a low-down cow-puncher. You never hed a dollar or a decent job till you was mixed up with thet Hammond woman—”