“Wal, I reckon I ain’t much of a fighter with my fists,” said Larry, soberly. “So come an’ get it over.”
“Oh, damn you, Red!... I wouldn’t lay a hand on you. And I am sick, I’m so glad to see you!... I thought you got here ahead of me.”
Neale’s voice grew full and trembling.
Larry became confused, his red face grew redder, and the keen blue flash of his eyes softened.
“Wal, I heerd what a tough place this heah Benton was—so I jest come.”
Larry ended this speech lamely, but the way he hitched at his belt was conclusive.
“Wal, by Gawd! Look who’s heah!” he suddenly exclaimed.
Neale wheeled with a start. He saw a scout, in buckskin, a tall form with the stride of a mountaineer, strangely familiar.
“Slingerland!” he cried.
The trapper bounded at them, his tanned face glowing, his gray eyes glad.