The weakling paused in pitiful indecision.

“Nick will be all right in a few minutes,” continued the stranger, reassuringly.  “Stay where you are.”

Even as he spoke, the man on the ground opened his eyes.  For a moment he gazed about, collecting his shocked and scattered senses.  Then, with a mad roar, he got to his feet and reached for his gun, but when his hand touched the empty holster a look of dismay swept over his heavy face, and he looked doubtfully toward Patches, with a degree of respect and a somewhat humbled air.

“Yes, I have your gun,” said Patches soothingly.  “You see, I thought it would be best to remove the temptation.  You don’t really want to shoot me, anyway, you know.  You only think you do.  When you have had time to consider it all, calmly, you’ll thank me; because, don’t you see, I would make you a lot more trouble dead than I could possibly, alive.  I don’t think that Mr. Baldwin would like to have me all shot to pieces, particularly if the shooting were done by someone from Tailholt Mountain.  And I am quite sure that ‘Wild Horse Phil’ would be very much put out about it.”

“Well, what do you want?” growled Nick.  “You’ve got the drop on me.  What are you after, anyway?”

“What peculiar expressions you western people use!” murmured Patches sweetly.  “You say that I have got the drop on you; when, to be exact, you should have said that you got the drop from me—­do you see?  Good, isn’t it?”

Nick’s effort at self-control was heroic.

Patches watched him with an insolent, taunting smile that goaded the man to reckless speech.

“If you didn’t have that gun, I’d—­” the big man began, then stopped, for, as he spoke, Patches placed the weapon carefully on a rock and went toward him barehanded.

“You would do what?”

At the crisp, eager question that came in such sharp contrast to Patches’ former speech, Nick hesitated and drew back a step.

Patches promptly moved a step nearer; and his words came, now, in answer to the unfinished threat with cutting force.  “What would you do, you big, hulking swine?  You can bully a weakling not half your size; you can beat a helpless incompetent like a dog; you can bluster, and threaten a tenderfoot when you think he fears you; you can attack a man with a loaded quirt when you think him unable to defend himself;—­show me what you can do now.”

The Tailholt Mountain man drew back another step.

Patches continued his remarks.  “You are a healthy specimen, you are.  You have the frame of a bull with the spirit of a coyote and the courage of a sucking dove.  Now—­in your own vernacular—­get a-goin’.  Vamoose!  Get out!  I want to talk to your superior over there.”

Sullenly Nick Cambert mounted his horse and turned away toward one of the trails leading out from the little arena.

“Come along, Joe!” he called to his follower.