Yank said nothing. His eye, where Joel’s fist had thudded, was swollen shut, but out of the other he glared steadily; and while he did not move a muscle (he knew better than to move with that revolver muzzle trained upon him), if a look could have killed, then Joel would have dropped in his tracks. Joel slowly backed away, keeping his Colt’s ready. “Remember,” he warned. “Don’t try that again.” And finally, having backed far enough, beyond the fringe of men who had gathered, he hastened after his wagon. Davy’s heart could beat again. “Joel was right in this,” proclaimed a teamster. “You may be assistant wagon boss but even the boss himself has no business whipping another man’s bulls.” And as the men resought their wagons heads wagged and voices murmured in agreement therewith. As for Yank, he was growing red again; he cautiously wiped his injured eye, his hand twitched upon the butt of his revolver, and picking up his hat he stumbled forward as if in a dream. The way he acted was more dangerous, it seemed to Davy, than if he had stormed and threatened. And Davy was afraid for Joel. The train passed through the sandy hollow without further mishap; and when they climbed out and pulled on over the next rise they met the buffalo hunters returning. The mules’ saddles were red with meat, and the three riders were well pleased with their hunt. The sun was low over the trail before, making golden the dust of travel. “We’ll camp here, boys,” called Charley, cheerfully, “and do what butchering we need on those buffalo carcasses. Swing out, Joel. Whew, man! You must have had to lay on the lash a bit heavy, didn’t you?” For the haunches of the lead team were bloody welted. More than that, the cracker seemed to have taken a piece of hide out the size of a quarter! “No,” said Joel, briefly. “I didn’t.” “Well,” continued Charley, “let’s corral where we are. Yank, you――what’s the matter with your eye, man?” “I fell down,” answered Yank, steadily. And at the laugh which went up he reddened deeply again, and again his hand twitched. XVII DAVY “THE BULL WHACKER” Charley scanned him quizzically for a moment. “You must have fallen mighty hard,” he remarked. “Who hit you, Yank?” “That lead teamster o’ yours,” growled Yank, with a string of oaths. “I’ll get him for that. No man can strike me and stay long on this earth. The dirty hound!” And he abused Joel horridly. Joel heard the loud words, and suddenly leaving his team where it stood, came walking fast. “None of that!” he called. “You keep a quiet tongue in your head. You can see what he did to my bulls, Charley. He laid my whip on them. I allow no man to cut my bulls. I never cut them myself. They were doing as well as they could.” Charley quickly stepped between the two――for the hand of each was poised for the dart to revolver butt. “That’s enough,” he bade. “There’s to be no fighting in this train and no swearing. You both know that. Give me your guns. Pass ’em over.”