"Moore, show up that wagon-load of stuff unless you want me to throw it out in the road." "Belllounds, you know I can't do that," replied Moore, coldly.

"And I'll give you a hunch.

You'd better shut up yourself and let me drive on....
If not for her sake, then for your own." Belllounds grasped the reins, and with a sudden jerk pulled them out of the cowboy's hands.
"You damn club-foot! Your gift of gab doesn't go with me," yelled Belllounds, as he swung up on the hub of the wheel.

But it was manifest that his desire to search the wagon was only a pretense, for while he pulled at this and that his evil gaze was on the cowboy, keen to meet any move that might give excuse for violence.

Moore evidently read this, for, gazing at Columbine, he shook his head, as if to acquaint her with a situation impossible to help.
"Columbine, please hand me up the reins," he said.