no man to kill off a feller that owes me money before he's got a chance to pay me."
The older men moved aside a little to give them a clear field for their operations, well pleased with the show these young humorists were getting up to enliven the day. Bill Dunham felt like he was in a hot whirlpool. There was trouble spinning him around and nothing on the bank to grab. It was their notion of a joke, he knew, at the same time realizing how little it would take to make it serious. This time he must keep his temper, let them go as far as they would. He would stand almost anything short of trying to make him give up his gun.
His disappointment over losing that job again was very great, and he was sore and vindictive against Moore, whose arrogance he would willingly have brought low, but he didn't want to have trouble with the rest of them. He stood his ground, wondering how far they'd go with it, telling himself over and over again with feverish repetition of anxiety, that he must not pull his gun. No matter how far they crowded him, he must not pull his gun.
The two cowboys were glaring at each other as if this clash over avenging Ira Ingram's most diverting death had set them at odds.
"Don't crosshackle me, boy!" the second, and older, of them warned. "He's mine. He'll either hand me that ten dollars old Arry owed me or I'll spang 'im in the abdomen."
"You pusillanimous old ape!" the first one said, with fine scorn, "I've already promised them boots to Arry's
