mute and gravely attentive. His apparent apathy lashed Hollister to fury. He pulled a gun and fired it, the lead spatting through the clapboards less than a foot from the Chinaman's head. But he did not move a muscle. The agent came flying out.
"Doggone you, Hollister," he cried, "you quit shootin' up my freight room. They's chickens in there. Your derned shot went plumb through the top coop."
"Git back in yore own coop," retorted the bully, rolling bloodshot eyes towards the none too valorous agent. "Or I'll plug you, you ink-slingin', frog-faced, wire-pecker. Now," as the agent vanished, "are you paralyzed or are you a dummy? Come on, show us how the Chinks dance the shimmy. Come on!" He fired a second and a third shot, the last between his victim's shoes, perilously close to one foot. The Chinaman stood up.
"Me, I no sabby how to dance," he said. "Suppose I give you one fine piecee goods, velly fine piecee silk, you leave me alone? Bimeby I go away." Hollister turned with a grin to the two horsemen.
"You bet yore life you'll go away," he said. "Let me see that fine piecee silk." He sat twisted sideways in the saddle, his pony nervous at the shots, chafing at the cruel bit with which, and his heavily roweled spurs, Hollister forced him to stay against the platform. The Chinaman bent to his suitcase, unstrapped and slowly opened it.
"What kind you likee best?" he asked, his voice deprecating, his face a mask of hiunility. "You likee blocade, fine dless for lady?"
