ridge was narrow and one false step might have been serious. The
cowboy held his horse in hand and, although he had a gun, he made no
attempt to shoot at the surly animal blinking at him and barring his
path. He was an old mountaineer, and he now used a trick that had long
been practised by the Indians, from whom, indeed, he learned it. He
began "making medicine with his voice."

"See here now, B'ar," he called aloud, "I ain't doing nothing to you.
I ain't got no grudge ag'in' you, an' you ain't got no right to a
grudge ag'in' me."

"Gro-o-o-h," said Gringo, deep and low.

"Now, I don't want no scrap with you, though I have my scrap-iron
right handy, an' what I want you to do is just step aside an' let me
pass that narrer trail an' go about my business."

"Grow--woo-oo-wow," grumbled Gringo.

"I'm honest about it, pard. You let me alone, and I'll let you alone;
all I want is right of way for five minutes."

"Grow-grow-wow-oo-umph," was the answer.

"Ye see, thar's no way round an' on'y one way through, an' you happen
to be settin' in it. I got to take it, for I can't turn back. Come,
now, is it a bargain--hands off and no scrap?"

It is very sure that Gringo could see in this nothing but a human
making queer, unmenacing, monotonous sounds, so giving a final