“Well, dam’ your heart,” he yelled, raising his pistol in the air as if about to throw the muzzle against his breast and fire. “What––in––hell––do you mean?”
Baffled and evaded in every play the evil-eyed barkeeper suddenly sensed a conspiracy to show him up, and instantly the realization of his humiliation made him dangerous.
“Perhaps you figure on makin’ a monkey out of me!” he suggested, hissing snakelike through his teeth; but Hardy made no answer whatever.
“Well, say something, can’t you?” snapped the badman, his overwrought nerves jangled by the delay. “What d’ye mean by interferin’ with my cat?”
For a minute the stranger regarded him intently, his sad, far-seeing eyes absolutely devoid of evil intent, yet baffling in their inscrutable reserve––then he closed his lips again resolutely, as if denying expression to some secret that lay close to his heart, turning it with undue vehemence to the cause of those who suffer and cannot escape.
“Well, f’r Gawd’s sake,” exclaimed Black Tex at last, lowering his gun in a pet, “don’t I git no satisfaction––what’s your i-dee?”
“There’s too much of this cat-and-mouse business going on,” answered the little man quietly, “and I don’t like it.”
“Oh, you don’t, eh?” echoed the barkeeper sarcastically; “well, excuse me! I didn’t know that.” And with a bow of exaggerated politeness he retired to his place.
“The drinks are on the house,” he announced, jauntily strewing the glasses along the bar. “Won’t drink, eh? All right. But lemme tell you, pardner,” he added, wagging his head impressively, “you’re goin’ to git hurt some day.”