“This has to do with your business. From what you’ve just been saying, you’re mighty particular to attend to your own business, seems to me.” The sheriff grunted and swept his eyes toward the two windows. In each opening were framed as many excited faces as could crowd into it. Bloom felt that the eyes of the town were upon him, that his prestige would suffer if he did not in some way stir himself. “Sit down,” proceeded the scout; “have a cigar and we’ll smoke a talk.” There was a friendly smile on Buffalo Bill’s face as he held out a weed. With a muttered oath the sheriff grabbed the cigar, crushed it in his thick fingers, and flung it in the scout’s face. A gasp came from the faces in the windows. “Snarlin’ catermounts!” fumed the trapper. “Ef ye don’t make him eat thet cigyar ye ain’t no friend o’ mine.” The scout was still smiling. “Sit down, Bloom.” The voice was as soft as velvet, but it cut like steel. The sheriff invited the scout to go to a warmer region than the Brazos, and started to brush by in the direction of the rear door. Then something happened. It happened with a suddenness that deceived the eye. One moment Bloom was pushing for the rear door, and the next he was sprawled in a chair, and the scout had the revolver that had been dangling from his belt. A titter came from the windows, and a whoop from old Nomad. “Et ain’t well ter fool with We, Us an’ Comp’ny when we’re loaded,” exulted the trapper, “er when we’re out spreadin’ harmony an’ good will up an’ down ther Brazos.” The sheriff’s face was as black as a thundercloud. He realized fully the ignominy of his position--and, quite as fully, his own helplessness. “More of your high-handed proceedings,” he ground out. “Some day you’ll get jumped on good and proper for your meddlin’, and after that you’ll ’tend to your own business an’ let other folks’ business alone.” “Some day,” said the scout, “but not to-day. Try and be a gentleman, Bloom. I reckon it’ll be hard for you, but, anyhow, make the effort.” The sheriff was beside himself with anger; in fact, he was so wrought up that words failed him. He gurgled and glared. Old Nomad stood at the door surveying the sheriff with great satisfaction. “Ther further we go on this hyar peacemakin’ tour, Buffler,” he remarked, “ther better I like et.” “Bloom,” pursued the scout, “a little history has been made during the last few days, and one detail of it I am going to offer for your attention. A man by the name of Ace Hawkins was shot and killed by a fellow calling himself Red Steve.” “You can’t tell me a thing I don’t know,” snorted the sheriff. “Ace Hawkins was a desperado--he deserved all he got, no matter who gave it to him.”