"Who's your friend?" questioned Calumet, with a derisive grin. "If I
was a sheep-man now, I'd try an' find time, next shearin'--"
"My father," growled Neal.
"Excuse me," said Calumet with a short laugh, though his eyes shone
with a sudden hardness; "I thought it was a--"
"You're Calumet Marston, I reckon," interrupted the bearded man.
"You're an impertinent pup, like your father was. Get his guns!" he
commanded gruffly.
Neal hesitated and then took a step toward Calumet. The latter
crouched, his eyes narrowing to glittering pin points. In his attitude
was a threat, a menace, of volcanic, destroying action. Neal stopped a
step off, uncertain.
Calumet's lips sneered. "Take my guns, eh?" he said. "Reach out an'
grab them. But say your prayers before you do--you an' that sufferin'
monolith with the underbrush scattered all over his mug. Come an' take
them!" He jeered as he saw Neal Taggart's face whiten. "Hell!" he
added as he saw the elder Taggart make a negative motion toward his
son, "you ain't got no clear thoughts just at this minute, eh?"
"We ain't aimin' to force trouble," growled the older man. "We're just
curious, that's what. Also, there's a chance that we can settle this
thing peaceable. We want to palaver. If you'll give your word that
there won't be no gun-play until after the peace meetin' is over, you
can take your hands down.
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