"Coward!"

Reynolds had partly turned as this word smote him like a knife. He
wheeled in an instant and faced Curly.

"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.