Y.D. sprang to his feet. "I've had one run-in with that ----," he
shouted, "an' I let him talk to me like a Sunday School super'ntendent.
Here's where I talk to him!"

"Well, finish the game first," the others protested. "The night's
young."

Y.D. was sufficiently drunk to be supersensitive about his honor, and
the inference from Wilson's remark was that he was too handy with his
branding-iron.

"No, boys, no!" he protested. "I'll make that Englishman eat his words
or choke on them."

"That's right," the company agreed. "The only thing to do. We'll all go
down with you."

"An' you won't do that, neither," Y.D. answered. "Think I need a
body-guard for a little chore like that? Huh!" There was immeasurable
contempt in that monosyllable.

But a fresh bottle was produced, and Y.D. was persuaded that his honor
would suffer no serious damage until the morning. Before that time his
company, with many demonstrations of affection and admonitions to "make
a good job of it," left for the mountains.

Y.D. saddled his horse early, buckled his gun on his hip, hung a lariat
from his saddle, and took the trail for the Wilson ranch. During the
drinking and gambling of the night he had been able to keep the insult