They were grinning, all three. The man just over the line was
listening while Good Indian spoke; the voice of Good Indian was
even and quiet, as if he were indulging in casual small talk of
the country, but that particular claim-jumper was not smiling.
Even from a distance they could see that he was fidgeting
uncomfortably while he listened, and that his breath was
beginning to come jerkily.
"Now, roll your blankets and GIT!" Good Indian finished sharply,
and with the toe of his boot kicked the nearest stake clear of
the loose soil. He stooped, picked it up, and cast it
contemptuously from him. It landed three feet in front of the
man who had planted it, and he jumped and shifted the rifle
significantly upon his arm, so that the butt of it caressed his
right shoulder-joint.
"Now, now, we don't want any overt acts of violence here,"
wheezed Baumberger, laying hand upon Good Indian's shoulder from
behind. Good Indian shook off the touch as if it were a
tarantula upon him.
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