"Who was that who went out?" he asked, turning to the barman.
"Did n't observe, sir," was the reply.
"O! Thought I knew his——" Apache Kid began, and then said suddenly, as though annoyed at himself: "No, I 'm damned if I did—did n't think anything of the kind. Did n't even see him."
The barman smiled, and as Apache Kid moved along the counter away from us to scrutinise an announcement posted on the wall, said quietly: "He don't look as if he hed bin drinkin' too much. Strange how it affects different men; some in the face, some in the legs. Some keep quite fresh looking, but when they talk they just talk no manner of sense at all."
I could have explained what was "wrong" with Apache Kid, but it was not necessary. Instead, I stepped back and took my seat with what the barman called, with a slight sneer, my "soft drink."
Apache Kid turned about and leant upon the counter. He sipped his cocktail with evident relish, and suddenly the door flew open. Those in the room were astonished, for the newcomer had in his grasp one of those heavy revolvers,—a Colt,—and he was three paces into the room and had his weapon levelled on Apache Kid before we had recovered from our surprise.
"Well!" he cried, "I have you now!" and behind him in the doorway, the door being slightly ajar, I caught a glimpse of the man who had gone out so surreptitiously a few moments before.
Apache Kid's eyes were bright, but there seemed no fear on his face; I could see none.
"You have me now," he said quietly.
The man behind the gun, a tall fellow with close-cropped red hair, lowered his revolver hand.