“H’m,” muttered Nomad. “I reckon I think too much o’ ther fightin’ end. In smoothin’ out kinks, I’d ruther land on ’em with both feet, with a gun in each fist. Rubbin’ the tangles out with love pats an’ coo-coo words is some more’n I kin do. Thar’s erbout as much sentiment in me as thar is in er horn toad. Anyways, this hyar di-plom-a-cy--is thet what ye call et?--ain’t wuth er whoop ef it ain’t backed by narve. By ther same token, what good’s narve ef ye ain’t got a leetle hardware tucked away up yore sleeve?” The scout laughed again. “I reckon we’ll have excitement enough to please you before we’re done with the Brazos,” said he, “but it’s only going to be incidental to the main question of peace.” The trapper chuckled, fancying he was catching Buffalo Bill’s drift. “We’ll make peace, Buffler,” he declared, “ef we hev ter shoot holes in every bloomin’ statute of ther State o’ Texas!” “Not so bad as that. We’re backing up the law, Nick. Bloom hasn’t been looking after the law as he was sworn to do.” “Nary, he hasn’t. Ef he don’t do his duty, we’ll climb his neck an’ choke him till he sees et right an’ promises ter be good. Oh, I dunno. I reckon bein’ peacemaker kerries plenty o’ blue-fire trimmin’s. I knowed er feller, up in the Niobrara kentry, called Piegan Charlie. Charlie went an’ took an’ got married. I was lopin’ past his wickiup one day, an’ I found him an’ Mrs. Charlie engaged in er argyment. Charlie was pushin’ Mrs. Charlie agin’ the side o’ the house, an’ argyin’ with a broomstick. I got all worked up with er fool desire ter be one o’ these hyar peacemakers. Thet’s what I did. So, like er ijut, I drapped off’n my hoss, caught Charlie by the scruff o’ the neck, an’ throwed him inter a rainwater bar’l. While I was prancin’ eround an’ yellin’ fer peace an’ domestic quiet, Mrs. Charlie come up behind me an’ rapped me over the head with er washboard. She screeched out thet I hadn’t no bizness meddlin’ with her husband er distarbin’ ther fambly. When Charlie got out o’ the bar’l, he begun shootin’ at me. So I loped on, sadder an’ a heap wiser.” By the time the scout had finished enjoying his pard’s reminiscence, they were in Hackamore. There was quite a crowd collected around the front of the Delmonico, peering curiously through the open door of the office and the office windows. “Somethin’ goin’ on, an’ I’ll bet er blue stack,” muttered Nomad. “Looks like it,” the scout answered. “What’s up, Pinkey?” queried the trapper, as the man in charge of the corral came to look after their riding gear. “Dunno,” answered Pinkey. “Thar’s so much goin’ on in this man’s town et’s hard ter keep track o’ all the doin’s. Mebby a dog fight, er a man fight--thar ain’t much diff’rence when it comes ter rowdyin’.” At this point a lanky individual, who had seen the pards ride up to the corral, hurried toward the group by the corral gate. “Buffler Bill! Buffler Bill!” the man cried.