“Did you refer to me?” he asked.  His eyes spoke danger, and the muscles of his body were tense.  But Curly did not heed the signs; he had thrown caution to the winds.

“I did,” he replied.  “And I repeat it, ‘Coward!’ for that is what——­”

Curly never finished the sentence, for a rigid fist caught him suddenly under the right jaw, and sent him reeling backward upon a small table.  Recovering himself as speedily as possible, and wild with pain and rage, he ripped forth a revolver from a hip-pocket.  A dead silence pervaded the room, like a calm before a storm.  And during that silence something unexpected happened.  It was not the report of the revolver, but the angry growl of a dog, the spitting of a cat, the bleat of a sheep, and the crow of a cock.

“Gr-r-r-r, ps-s-s-s, ba-a-a-a, cock-a-doodle-do-o-o.”

So incongruous did the peculiar sounds appear, that all stared in amazement.  Then when they beheld Frontier Samson standing near the door, their faces broadened into knowing grins, followed by hearty outbursts of laughter.

The prospector walked at once over to where Curly was standing, and laid his big right hand upon his shoulder.

“What’s all this about?” he asked.  “In trouble agin, eh?”

“I’ve been insulted by that?” and Curly motioned to Reynolds.

“An’ so yer goin’ to shoot?”

“I certainly am, so leave me alone.”

“An unarmed man?”

“What in h——­ do I care whether he’s armed or unarmed?”

“H’m, I guess ye’d care if he had a gun in his hands.”

“Let him do it, Samson.”  It was Reynolds speaking.  “An unarmed man is the only one he would try to shoot.  He took mighty good care to keep out of range of the German guns during the war.”

“You’re a liar,” Curly yelled, for the taunt stung him to the quick.

“Then the lie is on your own bead,” was the quiet reply.  “You and others have made the boast that you hid in the mountains and could not be caught when men were so sorely needed at the Front.  If it’s a lie, then you lied first, so don’t blame me.”

Curly’s only response was to raise his revolver and fire.  But Samson’s hand struck the weapon in time to divert the aim, and no harm was done.

“Thar, that’s enough of sich nonsense.”  The old prospector’s voice was more than usually stern.  “I’m not goin’ to stand here an’ see a man shot down in cold blood by the likes of you, Curly.  The chap ye want to kill is worth ten of you any day.  An’ as fer shootin’, why, ye wouldn’t have a peek in with him if he had a gun.”

“Give him one, then, and see how he can shoot,” was the surly reply.

“But give me that first,” and Samson laid his hand upon Curly’s revolver.

“What for?”