“A big soda,” he ordered, and was served immediately, though other men were clamoring. “Now drink that, and sit down there quietly;” and with a dexterous push he thrust Taffy into a bottomless chair in a corner, then he sauntered back to the card-table, and the game was resumed.
Suddenly, in the midst of a deal, his hand became motionless, and he looked up listeningly. His ears, quicker than the others—and they were by no means slow—had caught a significant sound.
“What is it, Varley?” asked one of the players.
“A shot,” he said, languidly.
Almost as he spoke, the sound was repeated, and this time was heard by some of the other men who were listening. They sprung to their feet, on the alert in a moment.
“Comes from the east,” said one. “Some o’ them darned Dog’s Ear scum!”
The hubbub in the saloon ceased as if at a word of command, and every eye was turned toward the east.
Varley rose and put on his hat, and, as if it were a signal, the others drew their revolvers and moved to the door. Before any one could reach it, it was thrown open, and Bill, the postman, staggered in. He was covered with mud, was bleeding from a wound on the side of his head, and was panting and breathless.
The men rushed to him and collected round him as he sunk on to a chair, mopping his face with the sleeve of his coat, and staring before him with bulging eyes.
Varley pushed his way through the circle, and laid a white hand upon the heaving shoulder.