Over those long legs Jack Hood stumbled.  When he whirled on the seated man his cheer was gone and a devil was in his face.

“You damned lummox,” he said, “what d’ye mean by tripping me?”

“Me?” gasped Bull, the smile gradually fading and blank amazement taking its place.

It was at this moment that a man stepped out of the shadow of the kitchen doorway, a very small withered man.  No doubt he was some late arrival asking hospitality for the night; and having come after supper was over, he had been fed in the kitchen and then sent in among the other men; for no one was turned away hungry from the Dunbar house.  He was so small, so light-footed, that he would hardly have been noticed at any time, and now that the roar from Jack Hood had focused all eyes on Bull Hunter, the newcomer was entirely overlooked.  He seemed to make it a point to withdraw himself farther, for now he stepped into a dense shadow near the wall where he could see and remain unseen.

Jack Hood had shaken his fist under the nose of the seated giant.

“I meant it,” he cried.  “You tripped me, you skunk, and Jack Hood ain’t old enough to take that from no man!”

Bull Hunter cast out deprecatory hands.  The words of this fire-eyed fellow were bad enough, but the tigerish tenseness of his muscles was still worse.  It meant battle, and the long, black, leather holster at the thigh of Hood meant battle of only one kind.  It had come so suddenly on him that Bull Hunter was dazed.

“I’m sorry,” he said.  “I sure didn’t mean to trip you—­but maybe my foot might of slipped out a little and—­”

“Slipped out!” sneered Hood.  He stopped, panting with fury.  That a comparative stranger should have dared to speak familiarly with his daughter was bad enough; that a blank-faced coward should have dared flirt with her, dared take her hand, was maddening.

“You infernal sneak!” he growled.  “Are you going to try to get out of it, now that you’ve seen you can’t bluff me down—­that I won’t stand for your tricks?”

Bull Hunter rose, slowly, unfolding his great bulk until he towered above the other; and yet the condensed activity of Hood was fully as formidable.  There were pantherlike suggestions of speed about the arm that dangled beside his holster.

The withered little man in the shadow by the kitchen door took one noiseless step into the light—­and then shrank back as though he had changed his mind.

“It looks to me,” said Bull Hunter mildly, “that you’re trying to force a fight on me.  Stranger, I can’t fight a man as old as you are.”

Perhaps it was a tactless speech, but Bull was too dazed to think of grace in words.  It brought a murderous snarl from the other.

“I’m old enough to be Jack Hood—­maybe you’ve heard of me?  And I’m young enough to polish off every unlicked cub in these parts.  Now, curse you, what d’ye say to that?”