want to settle that score himself. Now get out, the whole pack of you. Hurry! Hear that?"
They heard it distinctly. A twitch of apprehension ran down the line at the distant shouts, coming nearer, nearer, the joyous "Whoopee" of cowboys on the trail. Jackson rode towards Sheridan, leading a horse. The band scattered, diving for cover, fleeing for the shadows, torn by the cactus as they ran and leaped and dodged the eager spines.
One man stood his ground, the one Sheridan had marked as Hollister.
"Give me my horse," he said. "God damn you, Sheridan, I'll have you run out of the country for this. I'll" he sputtered in his rage.
"Is it yore hawss?" drawled Jackson. "I sure hoped so. Quong's goin' to ride it back. We'll send it over later, maybe with a little tar an' feathers on it for a souvenir, though I'd hate to mistreat even yore brute."
"You'll walk, Hollister," said Sheridan. "If I were you, I'd run."
Hollister tore off his neckerchief, his features working as he struggled for sufficient speech to express his seething soul.
"I'll be even with you, you damned tenderfoot," he said. "You low, sneakin', love-makin'"
Sheridan slid from the mare and jumped for him, tossing his gun to one side, anxious only to get his hands on Hollister, to choke down the dirty slanders he was about to utter. Hollister met him halfway and they came to a furious clinch, slugging and infighting, stamping, panting as they swayed back
