“Et’s Sim Pierce, thet’s who et is,” said Nomad, recognizing the approaching man. “What’s agitatin’ ye, Sim?” “Row on in the orfice o’ the Delmonico,” panted Sim Pierce. “Jake Phelps, Hank’s cousin er somethin’, is rowin’ it with Nate Dunbar. I reckon ye kin stop it, muy pronto, Buffler Bill. Hustle in an’ stop ’em afore they git ter drorin’ hardware an’ throwin’ lead.” The scout started for the office at a run. CHAPTER XXIV. THE QUARREL. The scout reached the door of the office, only to be grabbed by one of the men who had been standing there and looking in, but who had now retired with others to a safer position. “Keep away!” breathed the man. “They’ve got their shooters out, an’ there’ll be fireworks in a brace o’ shakes. If you go in there you’ll be right in the middle of the celebration.” “That’s where I want to be,” answered the scout, shaking the hand from his arm, “and I want to get in there before the celebration begins.” He stepped to the door and looked in. Nate Dunbar and Jake Phelps were standing no more than a dozen feet apart, Phelps with his back to the counter and Dunbar across the room. Furious anger burned in the face of Jake Phelps. In Dunbar’s face there was only determination--but it was deadly. Each man held a revolver in his right hand, and each watched like a cat for the first move of the other to lift his weapon. Only a hair’s breadth separated these men from rash and ugly work. Without a moment’s hesitation, Buffalo Bill sprang into the room and placed himself squarely between Dunbar and Jake Phelps. “I reckon this has gone far enough,” said he curtly. “Buffalo Bill!” exclaimed Dunbar. “Get away, amigo, and give me my chance at that hound!” Dunbar’s voice, husky with pent-up passion, rang surprisingly in the scout’s ears. He had not much time to remark upon the depth of the young rancher’s feeling, however, before his keen eye caught a hostile move of Jake Phelps’ right hand. In the wizardry of six-shooter practice, Buffalo Bill was second to none. Jake Phelps was perhaps a fraction of a second in lifting his revolver, yet, in that brief period of time, the scout had drawn--not only his own revolver, but also a very effectual “bead.” “Down with that hand!” he ordered. “Don’t you dare say no to me!” The compelling voice of the scout, no less than the bewildering magic that loaded his right hand with a six-shooter, caused Jack Phelps to gasp. From sheer amazement he suffered the hand to drop. “That’s right,” said the scout, “but see that you keep that hand where it is. Just remember, Jake Phelps, that what I miss in the original deal I always make up in the draw. You’re a friend of mine, Nate?” He kept his back to Dunbar and his eyes on Phelps as he asked the question. “Great guns,” cried the young rancher, “don’t I owe you about everything I’ve got in the world?”