“Ho!” glowered Jake. “You the boss of this town? You got more ter say about things in Hackamore than the sheriff?” “Never mind that. If you’re not out of town in five minutes, I’ll go gunning for you myself.” “I’ll take a shot at that meachin’ whelp behind you yet!” gritted Jake. “He can’t make any dead-set at me without getting all that’s coming. I’ll have his scalp, that’s what I’ll have. I’m going to make a widder of Mrs. Dunbar, and then Lige Benner----” The scout jumped at Phelps, grabbed him by the shoulders, and flung him bodily toward the door. Old Nomad stepped aside and helped him out of the room with a kick. The clerk, who had been on hands and knees behind the counter, carried out Phelps’ saddlebags and threw them after him. From the hitching pole, where his horse was tied, Jake Phelps swore and howled his threats. “I’ll square up with you for all this, my buck!” shouted Nate Dunbar, from a window. “You’ll have to get Buffalo Bill’s permission to call your soul your own before you do,” taunted Jake, tying the bags to the saddle, mounting, and spurring away. Dunbar turned to the scout with a gloomy face. “Amigo,” said he, “it would have been better if you’d let me had it out with that skunk.” “There was nothing to the row, Nate,” the scout answered. “Phelps has had too much red eye, and you lost your temper too easily. Have you finished your work here?” “Yes.” “Then you’d better ride for the Star-A ranch, Nate. And don’t forget yourself and take the trail to the Phelps outfit.” “You know me too well for that,” answered the young rancher. “When I say I’ll do a thing don’t I generally do it?” “You do,” returned the scout gravely, “and that’s what makes Nate Dunbar stack up so high with me. You’ll leave Jake Phelps alone?” “Yes.” “Thet’s ther tork, pard,” approved old Nomad. “Even a measley, no-’count yaller pup like Jake Phelps kin shoot. It would be tough on that Hattie girl if you was wiped out. Go home, Nate, an’ tell ’em out thar ter the ranch thet Buffler an’ Pard Nomad hev struck town and aire already at their peacemakin’.” Nate pricked up his ears. “I was wondering why you were here,” said he. “We’ve come to see Bloom, the sheriff.” “Bloom’s travelin’ this-a-way as fast as his legs kin kerry him,” spoke up Nomad, taking a squint through the door and up the street. “Then here’s where I pull out,” said Nate. “There’s no love lost between Bloom and me, and if I met him now and he gave me any of his back talk, the fur would fly. Be back to the ranch soon, Buffalo Bill?” “To-morrow, I hope.” Dunbar left the hotel by a rear door. Old Nomad, with a queer grin on his weather-beaten face, pushed into the office and dropped on a chair. “Now fer more peacemakin’,” he remarked, “an’ from ther looks o’ ther sher’ff, I reckon et’ll be real saloobrious. I’m fixin’ ter enjoy what’s comin’, I am so.” “There’ll be no trouble,” said the scout, himself taking a seat.