The riverman growled something.
SMACK! SMACK! sounded Orde's fists. The man, taken by surprise,
went down in a heap, but immediately rebounded to his feet as though
made of rubber. But Orde had seized a peavy, and stood over against
his antagonist, the murderous weapon upraised.
"Lie down, you hound, or I'll brain you!" he roared at the top
strength of his great voice. "Want fight, do you? Well, you won't
have to wait till the sheriff gets here! You make a move!"
For a full half minute the man crouched breathless, and Orde, his
ruddy face congested, held his threatening attitude. Then he
dropped his peavy and stepped aside.
"March!" he commanded. "Get your turkey and hit the hay trail.
You'll get your time at Redding."
The man sullenly arose and slouched away, grumbling under his
breath. Orde watched him from sight, then turned to the silent
group, a new crispness in his manner.
"Well?" he demanded.
Hesitating, they turned to the river trail, leaving the ten still
working at the sluice. When well within the fringe of the brush,
Orde called a halt. His customary good-humour seemed quite
restored.
"Now, boys," he commanded, "squat down and lay low. You give me an
ache! Don't you suppose I got this thing all figured out? If fight
would do any good, you know mighty well I'd fight.
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