Hale rode slowly on. He could hear the mountaineers yelling on
top of the hill, but he did not look back. Several bullets sang
over his head. Most likely they were simply "bantering" him, but
no matter--he rode on.
The blacksmith, the storekeeper and one passing drummer were
coming in from the woods when he reached the hotel.
"A gang o' those Falins," said the storekeeper, "they come over
lookin' for young Dave Tolliver. They didn't find him, so they
thought they'd have some fun"; and he pointed to the hotel sign
which was punctuated with pistol-bullet periods. Hale's eyes
flashed once but he said nothing. He turned his horse over to a
stable boy and went across to the little frame cottage that served
as office and home for him. While he sat on the veranda that
almost hung over the mill-pond of the other stream three of the
Falins came riding back. One of them had left something at the
hotel, and while he was gone in for it, another put a bullet
through the sign, and seeing Hale rode over to him. Hale's blue
eye looked anything than friendly.
"Don't ye like it?" asked the horseman.
"I do not," said Hale calmly.
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