A blue-shirted miner next him interposed: "'T is my trate. He 'll hev a cigar with me, he well. Das' thee thenk I be goin' to drenk with thee arl the time, and thee never taake a drenk 'long o' me? Set un up, Fred, my son, and doan't forget the lettle box."
Tex gazed curiously at the speaker. It was his first meeting with a Cornishman and Bill Tregloan was a character in more than speech. Wherever gold, or a rumor of gold, drew the feet of miner, there sooner or later would be Bill Tregloan. He had crossed the continent to California on foot and alone at a time when such an attempt was more than dangerous. That he escaped the natural perils of the trip was sufficiently wonderful; as for the Indians, there is no doubt they thought him mad.
Bill had his way in paying for the order and turned to lounge against the bar when his eye caught sight of that which drew from him a torrent of sputtering oaths and a harsh command. The only one who had failed to join the others at the bar was Charley, the Cheyenne Indian. He lay sprawled on the floor against the opposite wall, very drunk and asleep, and about to be subjected to one of the pleasing jokes of the railroad towns, in this instance very crudely prepared. The oil with which he was soaked, had been furnished far too plentifully, and he stood an excellent chance of being well roasted when the match, then burning, should be applied.
The man holding the match looked up at the Cornishman's shout. He did not understand the words but the meaning of the action that followed was plain; and when the miner, growling like a bear, started to rush at him, his hand dropped to his gun with the speed of a hawk. Fanny promptly stuck out his foot. Tregloan went down with Fanny on top of him but it takes more than one slight boy, whatever his strength, to hold down a wrestling Cornishman. The flurry that followed, even with the added weight of numbers, would have been funny but for the scowling face of the olive-skinned man who stood with ready gun until assured the struggle had gone against his opponent. Then he slipped gun in holster and felt for another match. "Take him away," he said, with a sneering smile, "he make me sick."
"What did they do that for?" asked Tex of Mike. Neither had moved during the excitement. The rest were pushing and pulling Tregloan out of the saloon.
"That's Guinea Mike," was the explanation. "He 'd murder his mother if she crossed him. First fair chanst I mane to break his d—d back—an' if ye tell him so he 'll kill me on sight."
"Interestin' specimen," observed Tex. Guinea Mike found another match and calmly lit it. Those not engaged in soothing Bill were looking in at the door and windows. Dutch Fred, behind the bar, was swearing good American oaths regarding the unjustified waste of his kerosene. Tex stepped away from the bar. "Blow that out," he said, dispassionately.
Guinea Mike looked up with a snarl. The two stares met and grappled. Guinea slowly raised the match to his lips and puffed it out, flipping it from him with a snap of one finger so that it fell almost at the feet of Tex. They watched each other steadily. A solitary snore from the Indian sounded like the rumble of overhead thunder. Slowly the hand of Guinea descended from before his lips and in unison with it descended the head of Fred until his eyes just cleared the top of the bar. Guinea's hand rested in the sagging waist of his trousers, a second, two—
The roar of the explosion was deafening. Guinea Mike's right shoulder went into retirement and his gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Screaming with rage he stooped to grasp it with his left hand and pitched forward at full length, both knee-caps shattered, at the mercy of this stranger who shot as if at a mark.
The noise awakened Cheyenne Charley who opened his eyes and smiled foolishly at the distorted face which had so unexpectedly reached his level. "D—n drunk," he observed, and immediately went to sleep again.