“‘Well,’ says Peets, ’it don’t make much difference about your name, all you has to do is hit the trail.  I needs that location you’ve done squatted on because of the water.’

“‘An’ do I onderstand, sir,’ says Coyote some agitated, ’that you’ll come with off’cers to put me outen my dug-out?’

“‘Shore,’ says Peets, in a case-hardened, pitiless tone, ‘an’ why not?  Am I to be debarred of my rights by some coyote-slaughterin’ invader an’ onmurmurin’ly accede tharto?  Which I should shore say otherwise.’

“‘Then I yereby warns you, sir,’ says Coyote, gettin’ pale as paper.  ’I advises you to bring your coffin when you comes for that land, for I’ll down you the moment you’re in range.’

“‘In which case,’ says Peets, assoomin’ airs of blood-thirsty trucyoolence, ‘thar’s scant use to wait.  If thar’s goin’ to be any powder burnin’ we might better burn it now.’

“‘I’ve no weepon, sir,’ says Coyote, limpin’ about in a circle, ’but if ary of these gentlemen will favour me with a gun I’ll admire to put myse’f in your way.’

“Which the appearance of Coyote when he utters this, an’ him showin’ on the surface about as war-like as a prairie-dog, convulses Dan an’ Texas.  It’s all they can do to keep a grave front while pore Coyote in his ignorance calls the bluff of one of the most deadly an’ gamest gents who ever crosses the Missouri—­one who for nerve an’ finish is a even break with Cherokee Hall.

“‘Follow me,’ says Peets, frownin’ on Coyote like a thunder cloud; ’I’ll equip you with a weepon myse’f.  I reckons now that your death an’ deestruction that a-way is after all the best trail out.

“Peets moves off a heap haughty, an’ Coyote limps after him.  Peets goes over where his rooms is at.  ‘Take a cha’r,’ says Peets, as they walks in, an’ Coyote camps down stiffly in a seat.  Peets crosses to a rack an’ searches down a 8-inch Colt’s.  Then he turns towards Coyote.  ‘This yere discovery annoys me,’ says Peets, an’ his words comes cold as ice, ‘but now we’re assembled, I finds that I’ve only got one gun.’

“‘Well, sir,’ says Coyote, gettin’ up an’ limpin’ about in his nervous way, his face workin’ an’ the sparks in his eyes beginnin’ to leap into flames; ‘well, sir, may I ask what you aims to propose?’

“‘I proposes to beef you right yere,’ says Peets, as f’rocious as a grizzly.  ‘Die, you miscreant!’ An’ Peets throws the gun on Coyote, the big muzzle not a foot from his heart.

“Peets, as well as Dan an’ Texas, who’s enjoyin’ the comedy through a window, ondoubted looks for Coyote to wilt without a sigh.  An’ if he had done so, the joke would have been both excellent an’ complete.  But Coyote never wilts.  He moves so quick no one ever does locate the darkened recess of his garments from which he lugs out that knife; the first p’inter any of ’em gets is that with the same breath wherein Peets puts the six-shooter on him, Coyote’s organised in full with a bowie.