"Why don't you yell at me that the sun is going to set in the west to-night ?" Bill drove the head of a four-cornered, iron nail clean out of sight in a table top.

And Jim prudently withdrew his head and turned his face and his attention towards the little procession that was just coming into sight at the end of the rambling street, with the crowd closing in behind it as the water comes surging together behind an ocean liner.
Jim worshiped his boss, but he knew better than to argue with him when Bill happened to be in that particular mood, which, to tell the truth, was not often.

But in five minutes or less he had forgotten the snub.
His head popped in again.
"Bill!" There may be much meaning in a tone, though it utters but one unmeaning word.

Bill dropped a handful of nails upon a table and came striding down the long room to the door; pushed Jim unceremoniously aside and stood upon the step.

He was just in time to look into the rageful, blue eyes of Jack Allen, walking with a very straight back and a contemptuous smile on his lips, between the Captain and one of his trusted lieutenants.
Bill's fingers clenched suggestively upon the handle of the hammer.
His jaw slackened and then pushed itself forward to a fighting angle while he stared, and he named in his amazement that place which the padres had taught the Indians to fear.
The Captain heard him and grinned sourly as he passed on.