“How do I know who ye are, or what ye’d do?” fumed the other, far and away more savage than the scout thought the mishap warranted. “I don’t want no truck with ye, anyways. If ye didn’t allow ter pay me a visit, an’ if ye ain’t here from ch’ice, then yore next move is ter git out as quick as ye come in. Them’s the stairs”--he waved a hand toward a ladder that led upward to a flat door in the roof--“an’ at the same time we says hello, we also says good-by. Start yerself.” “I’m not inclined to stay here any longer than you want to have me,” answered the scout, “but I landed with something of a jolt. If it’s all the same to you, I’ll just catch my breath before I try the stairs.” “It ain’t all the same ter me,” barked the man. “I want ye ter go, an’ I want ye ter go ter oncet! With this ter back up the invite, I reckon ye won’t stand none on the order ter hike.” The red-haired man made a swipe at his belt and lifted a hairy hand with a six-shooter. Buffalo Bill looked him in the eye and then coolly sat down on a two-legged stool that happened to be handy. “I’ve heard a good deal about Texas hospitality,” said he, “but you’re giving it a hardware twist that I don’t like. And when I don’t like a thing,” he added significantly, “I’m apt to make it pretty plain.” “Ye kain’t run in any rannikaboo on me,” snorted the red-haired person, jabbing the air with the point of his gun. “Ye say yer drappin’ in was a accident. I’m lettin’ it go at that, an’ givin’ ye a chance ter depart without any fireworks. An’ I ain’t sayin’ nothin’ about the damage ye done ter the dugout, nuther. Pick up yore hat an’ scatter. I’ll count three. When I say ‘one,’ ye’ll reach fer the hat; when I say ‘two,’ ye’ll be on the stairs; an’ when I say ‘three,’ ye’ll either be through that door in the roof or I’ll drop ye in yer tracks.” The barbarous methods of this red-haired man were utterly uncalled for. He was showing a spirit that needed taming. Buffalo Bill dropped his eyes to the litter on the floor. His hat lay there, and from under the brim of the hat showed two inches of revolver-muzzle. One of the scout’s six-shooters had been jarred from his belt and had fallen under the sombrero. “One!” The word was a yelp, and the blued barrel of the Texan’s gun looked the scout full in the face. “All right,” said Buffalo Bill cheerily. He reached for his hat with both hands. But only one hand picked up the hat; the other caught the handle of the six-shooter. Then something happened which the Texan had not been looking for. As the scout arose from the stool, the report of a firearm split the air. A bullet passed through the crown of the sombrero, singed the Texan’s ear and clipped a lock of his red hair. For an instant, barely an instant, the Texan’s revolver shook uncertainly. That instant spelled opportunity for the scout. With the speed of thought he grabbed the hostile gun, jerked it away, and looked over the sights at its owner.