He remembered, and was acting upon, a conversation he had once held with Ware.  The talk had fallen on gunfighting, and Bob, as usual, was trying to draw Ware out.  The latter was, also, as usual, exceedingly reticent and disinclined to open up.

“What would you do if a man got your hands up?” chaffed Bob.

Ware turned on him quick as a flash.

“No man ever got my hands up!”

“No?” said Bob, hugely delighted at the success of his stratagem.  “What do you do, then, when a man gets the cold drop on you?”

But now Ware saw the trap into which his feet were leading him, and drew back into his shell.

“Oh, shoot out, or bluff out,” said he briefly.

“But look here, Ware,” insisted Bob, “it’s all very well to talk like that.  But suppose a man actually has his gun down on you.  How can you ’shoot out or bluff out’?”

Ware suddenly became serious.

“No man,” said he, “can hold a gun on you for over ten seconds without his eyes flickering.  It’s too big a strain.  He don’t let go for mor’n about the hundredth part of a second.  After that he has holt again for another ten seconds, and will pull trigger if you bat an eyelash. But if you take it when his eyes flicker, and are quick, you’ll get him!”

“What about the other way around?” asked Bob.

“I never pulled a gun unless I meant to shoot,” said Ware grimly.

The practical philosophy of this Bob was now utilizing.  If he had ridden up boldly, Samuels would probably have shot him from the saddle.  Having gained the respite, Bob now awaited the inevitable momentary relaxing from this top pitch of excitement.  It came.

“I have not the slightest intention of tacking up any notices or serving any papers,” he said quietly, referring to the errand of the man whom Samuels had driven off at the point of his weapon.  “I am travelling on business; and I asked for shelter and supper.”

“No ranger sets foot on my premises,” growled Samuels.

“Very well,” said Bob, unpinning and pocketing his pine tree badge. ("Oh, I’d have died rather than do that!” cried Amy when she heard.  “I’d have stuck to my guns!” “Heroic, but useless,” replied her brother drily.) “I don’t care whether the ranger is fed or not.  But I’m a lot interested in me.  I ask you as a man, not as an official.”

“Your sort ain’t welcome here; and if you ain’t got sense enough to see it, you got to be shown!” the youngest man broke in roughly.

Bob turned to him calmly.

“I am not asking your sufferance,” said he, “nor would I eat where I am not welcome.  I am asking Mr. Samuels to bid me welcome.  If he will not do so, I will ride on.”  He turned to the old man again.  “Do you mean to tell me that the North End is so far behind the South End in common hospitality?  We’ve fed enough men at the Wolverine Company in our time.”

Bob let fly this shaft at a venture.  He knew how many passing mountaineers paused for a meal at the cook house, and surmised it probable that at least one of his three opponents might at some time have stopped there.  This proved to be the case.