"Hello!" roared the "tough," folding his huge knotty arms across his
partially bared breast; "ho! ho! whoa up thar, pilgrims! Don' ye go
ter bein' so fast. Fo'kes harn't so much in a hurry now-'days as they
uster war. Ter be sure ther Lord manyfactered this futstool in seven
days; sum times I think he did, an' then, ag'in, my geological ijees
convince me he didn't."

"What has that to do with us?" demanded Ned, sternly. "I opine ye'd
better spread, some of you, if you don't want me to run a canyon
through your midst. Preach to some other pilgrim than me; I'm in a
hurry!"

"Haw! haw! Yas, I obsarve ye be; but if ye're my meat, an' I think
prob'ble ye be, I ain't a-goin' fer ter let yer off so nice and easy.
P'arps ye kin tell who fired the popgun, a minnit ago, w'at basted my
ole pard?"

"I shall not take trouble to tell!" replied Ned, fingering the trigger
of his left six uneasily. "Ef you want to know who salted Chet
Diamond, the worst blackleg, trickster and card-player in Dakota, all
you've got to do is to go and ask him!"

"Hold!" cried Harry Redburn, stepping out from behind Harris; "I'll
hide behind no man's shoulder. _I_ salted the gambler--if you call
shooting salting--and I'm not afraid to repeat the action by salting a
dozen more just of his particular style."

Ned Harris was surprised.