"While you were doing that war-dance on what was left of my manhandled
geography."

"Can you arrest a fellow for slippin'?"

"Depends on how badly he slips. I'm going to take a chance on
arresting you, anyhow."

"Gonna take away my six-shooter and handcuff me?"

"I'll take your revolver. If necessary, I'll put on the cuffs."

Morse looked at him, not without admiration. The man in the scarlet
jacket wasted nothing. There was about him no superfluity of build,
of gesture, of voice. Beneath the close-fitting uniform the muscles
rippled and played when he moved. His shoulders and arms were those
of a college oarsman. Lean-flanked and clean-limbed, he was in the
hey-day of a splendid youth. It showed in the steady eyes set wide in
the tanned face, in the carriage of the close-cropped, curly head, in
the spring of the step. The Montanan recognized in him a kinship of
dynamic force.

"Just what would I be doing?" the whiskey-runner asked, smiling.

Beresford met his smile. "I fancy I'll find that out pretty soon. Your
revolver, please." He held out his hand, palm up.

"Let's get this straight. We're man to man. What'll you do if I find
I've got no time to go to Fort Macleod with you?"