Hullo!"
Uncle Jake slipped on to the verandah, six-shooter in hand. Before he
spoke, he spat contemptuously; then he drawled out: "Our boys say it's
none o' their doggoned business; they won't interfere."
"Good," said Ajax cheerfully. "Nip back, Uncle; we can play this hand
alone."
"Sure?" The old man's voice expressed doubt.
"Quite sure. Shush-h-h!"
Uncle Jake slid off the verandah, but he retired--so we discovered
later--no farther than the water-butt behind it. Ajax and I went into
the sitting-room. From the bed-room beyond came no sound whatever.
Through the windows the pack was seen--slowly advancing.
"Come in, gentlemen," said Ajax loudly.
He stood in the doorway, an unarmed man confronting a dozen
desperadoes.
"Wheer's the Chinaman--Quong?"
I recognised the voice of a cowboy whom we had employed: a man known
in the foothills as Cock-a-whoop Charlie.
"He's here," Ajax answered quietly.
A tall, gaunt Missourian, also well known to us as a daring bull-
puncher, laughed derisively.
"Here--is he? Wal, we want him, but we don't want no fuss with you,
boys. Yer--white, but he's yaller, and he must go.
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