“Waugh!” chimed in the old trapper, who had been keeping silent only by a great effort. “Ef ye git too rantankerous, I’ll hand ye a fistful of five, with my compliments. We ain’t thieves, we ain’t. We’re pards o’ Buffler Bill’s, an’ no measly, locoed watch manglers aire goin’ ter insult us.” Old Nomad looked so hostile that Benner cast a look around him as though searching for some of his cowboys. “What I’m after,” he went on, less truculently, “is a piece of paper with some very important notes on it. I carried the paper under the lid of my watch, and I forgot to remove it when I threw the watch.” “Tell me what was on the paper,” insisted Wild Bill. “I picked up something that wasn’t addressed or signed, and that might have been dropped by any man, woman or child in Hackamore. You tell me what was on the paper, Benner--this paper that Phelps sent to you--and if it matches what I read, I’ll tell you where the paper is.” Wild Bill had the cattle barons in a corner. Neither would dare to repeat the contents of that piece of paper. It was the sort of writing that could not be turned into public talk without exciting comment. “I was told you picked up the paper,” said Benner, with a fierce look at the Laramie man, “an’ you know well enough that it dropped out o’ my watch. There’s no need of talking about what was written in the note--it was private, anyway.” Phelps, meanwhile, had seen the little scraps lying on the ground. From these he must have inferred what had happened to Benner’s memoranda. Catching his companion’s arm, Phelps drew him to one side and whispered to him. Benner swept a look over the ground at the minced fragments of the bit of thin pasteboard, then lifted his eyes to Wild Bill. “You’ll find, my man,” he cried, “that Lige Benner has some power up and down the Brazos. This ain’t the end of this flare-up.” With that, he whirled around and he and Phelps vanished in the direction of the street. “Waugh!” breathed the old trapper regretfully, “another chance fer a fight gone a-glimmerin’. Ain’t et possible fer us ter git inter a scrap noways?” The sky pilot dropped a hand on his arm. “You’re too gallant a man, Nomad,” said he, “to get into a fight for the mere love of it. It’s a sign of barbarism for men to be too free with their fists and their hardware.” “I jest dote on barbarism,” carolled Nomad. “I’m plumb savage, elder, an’ I got ter hev a set-to oncet er day er git bilious.” The sky pilot laughed genially and thumped the old war horse on the back. “You’re a man after my own heart,” he declared, “and I can see that; what’s more, you’re about as barbarous as a chipmunk until your fur is ruffled the wrong way. I wouldn’t give two cents for a man who hadn’t the sand to stick up for his rights. Brother, you and I are going to get along. Now, tell me what you’ve found out about the Perrys.” Wild Bill and Nomad were taking a big liking to Jordan. He was vastly different from most circuit-riding ministers they had met.