y fist t' y'
as A wud t' a Man! Ye dastard, drunken, poltroon, coward, whiskey
sodden lout an' scum o' filth, an'," each word was emphasized by the
thud of the empty whiskey bottle wielded as a flail.

"Look out, sir," warned Wayland, rolling from his horse in laughter,
"you'll hurt something, with that bottle."

"Hurt something? N' danger on this wad of fat an' laziness an' lies."
(Thud . . . thump . . . and a double tattoo.) He threw the instrument
of castigation aside and spinning the hulk of flesh and sprawling legs
erect, began applying the sole of his boot. "A'll no take m' fist t'
y' as A wud t' a Man! A'll treat y' as A wud a dirty broth of a brat
of a boy with the flat o' my hand an' sole leather; y' scum, y' runt,
y' hoggish swinish whiskey soak o' bacon an' fat! 'Tis th' likes o'
you are the curse o' this country, y' horse-thief sheriff, y'
bribe-takin' blackguard guardian o' justice an' right! y' coward not
doin' th' crime y' self, but shieldin' them that do."

The sheriff had uttered a splutter of filthy expletives at the first
blow, then a yell; now he was bellowing aloud, chattering with terror,
screaming to be, "let go, let go! I never done you no harm. I'll have
y'r life for this."

"Y' will, will y'? Did y' ask for a drink? Wayland, wait for m' here!"

The Ranger saw the white-haired frontiersman seize one sprawling leg
and the shirt front of the struggling limp thing in his hands. He
heard him plunging down through the tangle of windfall and brush.
There was a bellowing howl and a splash; and Wayland being altogether
human flesh and blood doubled up on the ground with laughter.

"That'll cool him," remarked Matthews coming back very red of face and
sober, "an' it's not deep enough to drown."

He tore open the tent flap and rolled out a small keg. There was a
sound of dregs still rinsing round inside. They could hear the bellows
from the brook. The majesty of the law had evidently crawled out on
the far side.

"He's the kind o' brave man will slap children, an' call a boy a calf,
an' bully timid women, an' knock down little Chinks and dagoes! Oh, A
know his kind o' thunder-barrel bravery, that makes the more noise the
emptier and bigger it is--they're thick as louse ticks under the slimy
side of a dirty board in this world, Wayland; an' they're thick in the
girth an' thicker in the skull." Matthews had taken one of the Forest
axes from the saddle. He left the whiskey keg in ki