“I wouldn’t put it so strong as that, Nate,” said the scout, with a quiet laugh. “If you’re my friend, though, you’ll put up your gun. I’ll guarantee that Jake Phelps doesn’t take any advantage of you.” “But you don’t understand----” “I’m going to understand all about this before I get through. In the meantime, you’ll please understand that I have requested you to put up your revolver.” “She’s up,” said Dunbar promptly. “Buenos! Now, Nate, kindly talk at the back of my head and tell me the cause of this flare-up.” Old Nomad was standing in the door, leaning negligently against the door casing and fanning himself with his hat. Pard Buffler was “on the job,” and the trapper realized that there wasn’t any cause for any one to worry. But that peacemaker racket, while all right in its way, wasn’t making much of a hit with Nomad. “I was sitting here minding my own business,” said Dunbar, “when Jake Phelps came in. He began saying things to r’ile me. His palaver wasn’t thrown at me, but was fired at the clerk. I allowed him to talk about me as much as he pleased, but when he turned his dirty tongue loose on Dick Perry, then on you, and, at the last, dragged in the name of my wife, my patience had reached the limit. He’s a low-down whelp!” “What did he say about me?” inquired the scout. “He said you were a meddler in other men’s affairs and----” “Which was the truth, in a way.” “It wasn’t so much what he said about you as the way he said it.” In the West there are some things a man has to say with a smile--if he would avoid gun play. “Anything else, Nate?” asked the scout. “Well, he remarked that Dick Perry was a blackguard an----” “Waugh!” came from the door. “Did he refer ter me with any o’ his fool talk, Nate?” “No.” “I’m relieved a hull lot,” grinned the trapper. “Ef he’d er called me a goat, er somethin’ like thet, I mout hev shot him up.” “Got anything to tell us, Jake?” asked the scout. “Well, yes,” answered Jake; “you fellers over at the Star-A ranch are a lot of measley tin horns. You can put up a good front, but your work is all rhinecaboo. I rode into town after the H-P pay-roll, and strolled in here to stuff the coin into my saddlebags. I saw Dunbar. What I said, I said so as to show this town he ain’t half a man.” Jake Phelps laughed, and looked around in a cheap attempt at bravado. “He dassen’t fight. Everybody can see that.” “Anybody can see with half an eye that Nate Dunbar has you beat a mile in everything that makes a man a man. You’re nine-tenths pure guff, Jake, and the other tenth is just plain dog.” The scout put up his revolver. Phelps was still armed, but the scout looked him squarely in the eye and he made no attempt to use his weapon. “You’ve got your pay-roll money, have you?” went on Buffalo Bill. “What business is that of----” “That’s going far enough. I’ll give you five minutes to get out of town.”