“Who’re you!” challenged Foy.

“Friend with the countersign.  Don’t shoot!  Don’t shoot me, anyhow.”

Foy rose from hand and knee to knee and foot.  This rescuer, so opportunely arrived from nowhere, seemed to be an ally.  But to avoid mistakes, Foy’s gun followed Pringle’s motions, at the same time willing and able to blow out Creagan’s brains if advisable.  He also acquired Creagan’s gun quite subconsciously.

“Let me introduce myself, gentlemen,” said Pringle.  “I’m Jack-in-a-Pinch, Little Friend of the Under Dog—­see Who’s This? page two-thirteen.  My German friend, come out from behind that bar—­hands up—­step lively!  Spot yourself!  My Mexican friend, join Mr. Max.  Move, you poisonous little spider—­jump!  That’s better!  Gentlemen—­be seated!  Right there—­smack, slapdab on the floor.  Sit down and think.  Say!  I’m serious.  Am I going to have to kill some few of you just because you don’t know who I am?  I’ll count three!  One! two!—­That’s it.  Very good—­hold that—­register anticipation!  I am a worldly man,” said Pringle with emotion, “but this spectacle touches me—­it does indeed!”

“I’ll get square with you!” gurgled Applegate, as fiercely as his breathless condition would permit.

“George—­may I call you George?  I don’t know your name.  You may get square with me, George—­but you’ll never be square with anyone.  You are a rhomboidinaltitudinous isosohedronal catawampus, George!”

George raved unprintably.  He made a motion to rise, but reconsidered it as he noted the tension of Pringle’s trigger finger.

“Don’t be an old fuss-budget, George,” said Pringle reprovingly.  “Because I forgot to tell you—­I’ve got my gun now—­and yours.  You won’t need to arrest me, though, for I’m hitting the trail in fifteen minutes.  But if I wasn’t going—­and if you had your gun—­you couldn’t arrest one side of me.  You couldn’t arrest one of my old boots!  Listen, George!  You heard this Chris-gentleman give his reasons for wanting peace?  Yes?  Well, it’s oh-so-different here.  I hate peace!  I loathe, detest, abhor, and abominate peace!  My very soul with strong disgust is stirred—­by peace!  I’m growing younger every year, I don’t own any property here, I’m not going to be married; I ain’t feeling pretty well anyhow; and if you don’t think I’ll shoot, try to get up!  Just look as if you thought you wanted to wish to try to make an effort to get up.”

“How—­who——­” began Creagan; but Pringle cut him short.

“Ask me no more, sweet!  You have no speaking part here.  We’ll do the talking.  I just love to talk.  I am the original tongue-tied man; I ebb and flow.  Don’t let me hear a word from any of you!  Well, pardner?”

Foy, still kneeling in fascinated amaze, now rose.  Creagan’s nose was bleeding profusely.

“That was one awful wallop you handed our gimlet-eyed friend,” said Pringle admiringly.  “Neatest bit of work I ever saw.  Sir, to you!  My compliments!” He placed a chair near the front door and sat down.  “I feel like a lion in a den of Daniels,” he sighed.