“No,” replied Shefford, briefly.
“Wal, I'm stuck on your job. Do you need a packer? I can throw a diamond-hitch better 'n any feller in this country.”
“I don't need help.”
“Mebbe you'll take me over to see the ladies,” he went on, with a coarse laugh.
Shefford did not show that he had heard. Hurley waited, leering as looked from the keen listeners to Shefford.
“Want to have them all yerself, eh?” he jeered.
Shefford struck him—sent him tumbling heavily, like a log. Hurley, cursing as he half rose, jerked his gun out. Nas Ta Bega, swift as light, kicked the gun out of his hand. And Joe Lake picked it up.
Deliberately the Mormon cocked the weapon and stood over Hurley.
“Get up!” he ordered, and Shefford heard the ruthless Mormon in him then.
Hurley rose slowly. Then Joe prodded him in the middle with the cocked gun. Shefford startled, expected the gun to go off. So did the others, especially Hurley, who shrank in panic from the dark Mormon.