"Well, he can cut his bean-poles on his own land hereafter," said McCloud. "Gosh!" observed Tansey, in pretended admiration. "Ain't he neighborly? Cut 'em on my own land, hey? Don't git passionate," he added, moving off through the dust; "passionate folks is liable to pyralyze their in'ards, young man!" "Don't answer!" said the path-master, watching the sullen rage in McCloud's eyes. "Pay yewr debts!" called out Tansey at the turn of the road. "Pay yewr debts, an' the Lord will pay yewr taxes!" "The Lord can pay mine, then," said McCloud to the path-master, "for I'll never pay a cent of taxes in Foxville. Now what do you say to that?" The path-master had nothing to say. She went away through the golden dust, one slim hand on the head of her collie dog, who trotted beside her waving his plumy tail. That evening at the store where McCloud had gone to buy cartridges, Tansey taunted him, and he replied contemptuously. Then young Byram flung a half-veiled threat at him, and McCloud replied with a threat that angered the loungers around the stove. "What you want is a rawhide," said McCloud, eying young Byram. "I guess I do," said Byram, "an' I'm a-goin' to buy one, too--unless you pay that there road-tax." "I'll be at home when you call," replied McCloud, quietly, picking up his rifle, and pocketing his cartridges. Somebody near the stove said, "Go fur him!" to Byram, and the young road-master glared at McCloud. "He was a-sparkin' Ellie Elton," added Tansey, grinning; "yew owe him a few for that, too, Byram." Byram turned white, but made no movement. McCloud laughed. "Wait," said the game-warden, sitting behind the stove; "jest wait awhile; that's all. No man can fire me into a ditch full o' stinging nettles an' live to larf no pizened larf at me!" "Dingman," said McCloud, contemptuously, "you're like the rest of them here in Foxville--all foxes who run to earth when they smell a Winchester." He flung his rifle carelessly into the hollow of his left arm; the muzzle was in line with the game-warden, and that official promptly moved out of range, upsetting his chair in his haste. "Quit that!" bawled the storekeeper, from behind his counter. "Quit what--eh?" demanded McCloud. "Here, you old rat, give me the whiskey bottle! Quick! What? Money to pay? Trot out that grog or I'll shoot your lamps out!" "He's been a-drinkin' again," whispered the game-warden. "Fur God's sake, give him that bottle, somebody!" But as the bottle was pushed across the counter, McCloud swung his rifle-butt and knocked the bottle into slivers. "Drinks for the crowd!" he said, with an ugly laugh. "Get down and lap it up off the floor, you fox cubs!" Then, pushing the fly-screen door open with one elbow, he sauntered out into the moonlight, careless who might follow him, although now that he had insulted and defied the entire town there were men behind who would have done him a mischief if they had dared believe him off his guard.