In spite of his condition Dorgan appeared to realize this, for he paused uncertainly.

"I don't hold myself up as no defender o' Injuns," the old puncher went on calmly, "but I've had a bit o' truck with 'em, fer an' ag'inst, I'm some judge of 'em, an' I reck'n this one c'n stay right here." Dorgan began to stiffen a little and his fingers clutched, as one's will when one thinks of reaching for a gun.

The other man had a gun, too, but he made not the slightest movement toward it, and he spoke even more quietly than before.
"If I was you," he repeated, "bein' in th' c'ndition you're in, I'd beat it.

You may have objections for t' state, thinkin' this ain't none o' my business, an' you c'n state 'em now--or f'rever hold your peace." Dorgan looked around the tent, as if for moral support, but didn't find any.

A singular quiet had fallen on the place; a sort of disconcerting quiet.