Dunham, and the committee of humorists who had blocked his tour of exploration, stood in front of the hardware store, where a special effort was made to light up the display of arms and ammunition in the window. Bill felt himself as prominent as a lightningbug under a glass.
The long-legged cowboy, who was somewhat mature for that designation, being nearer forty than twenty, by long odds, took a judicial stand before Dunham, hat pulled down to his eyebrows to make himself look meaner than nature had designed him, although it had done a job that should have satisfied any reasonable man.
"Have you got a license to pack a gun, little feller?" he inquired, leering at Bill sharply out of the shadow of his hat.
"You fellers go on where you're headin' for, and I'll do the same," Bill returned, well enough humored in tone and appearance, but a little vexed under the skin. He resented the disposition of everybody to pick on him the minute he showed his head outside the door in that town.
"No, you're not goin' on till you perduce your license," this rough joker declared. "I'm takin' up all guns that ain't licensted. Show me your paper, or hand over that little lady gun you've got under your coat."
"Oh, quit your coddin'," said Bill.
"He ain't got no license!" somebody declared in voice of shocked conviction.
"They hang 'em down at Dodge for packin' guns without papers, but I expect they'll let you off with a
