With a good-by pat on the white-starred forehead of his horse the Texan turned toward Laroque’s, mechanically adjusting the guns at his hips, as he did so. Here again there would have been nothing to arouse more than passing interest on the part of the ordinary spectator, for every cowboy, who had entered Laroque’s, had made that same readjustment of revolvers. It was a fighting man’s country, and Laroque’s specialized in entertainment for men of that sort. Eddie’s shutters had been taken down and used so often to carry out men, who were either dead or desperately wounded, that it was said that the hinges were being worn out. Laroque himself was supposed to order his big mirrors by the half dozen, for every gun fight saw one shattered.
There was a long line of men at Laroque’s bar, as the Texan entered the saloon, and others were sitting in little groups at the tables to the right. The Texan instinctively realized that Jimmy Coyle’s shooting had caused something approaching a revolt in the Swingley ranks. Hardened as the invaders were and accustomed to the idea of killing, this shooting of a mere boy and leaving him for dead was something that went against the grain.
Bertram had no sooner set foot in Laroque’s place than the group at the first table called him over and inquired about Jimmy Coyle’s condition. Bertram sat down, but in such a position that he could see through the open doorway into the gambling establishment.
“Swingley and Hoog are here,”, said one of the cow-punchers, “and they’re sure as restless as a couple of mountain lions. Likewise they’ve both been taking on more liquor than common.”
“I know you don’t stand any too well with ’em, Milt, on account of your quittin’ the command,” observed another puncher. “Onless you are courtin’ argymint, I advise your seekin’ entertainment elsewhere.”
“I’m here, and I always did like the homelike atmosphere of Eddie Laroque’s place,” responded Bertram quietly. “I reckon I’ll stay.”
As he spoke, the Texan saw Tom Hoog entering the open doorway. Though he must have seen the Texan, who was in plain view, Hoog made no sign, but walked to the bar.
With one foot on the rail, his elbow on the bar, the gunman let his gaze travel slowly over Bertram, from head to foot. The others at the table shoved back uneasily. Those who were in the direct line of fire rose and stepped to one side. The Texan returned the gaze calmly enough. The men who flanked Hoog at the bar, after a startled glance around, edged away.
“Texas ain’t produced but few quitters,” said Hoog, in a loud voice, though apparently he was not addressing anybody. “But, when it does produce one, he’s all yellow.”
Bertram did not change his expression nor his attitude. Hoog’s face reddened with sudden passion. As he stood at the bar, his long, saturnine countenance writhing with hate, more men slipped quietly out of the room, feeling that the storm could not be delayed many seconds longer. The gunman stood with one arm resting on the bar, though he had not touched the glass that had been shoved toward him by the despairing Laroque, who had already counted another mirror as good as smashed.