"A gritty man, right enough," said one man near by. "A pair of gritty men, I 'm thinking."
Apache Kid drained his glass, and I heard him say to the barman:
"Well, he 's no coward. A coward would have shot whenever he stepped in at the door, and given me no chance. And even if he had n't done that," he continued, arguing the thing aloud, in a way I had already recognised as natural to him, as though he must scrutinise and diagnose everything, "even if he had made up his mind to let me off, he would have backed out behind his gun for fear of me. No, he 's not a coward."
"But you told him you were n't heeled," said the barman.
"Oh! But I might have been lying," said Apache Kid, and frowned.
"He was n't lying, I bet," said the man near me. "A cool man like that there don't lie. It's beneath him to lie."
But Apache Kid did not seem to relish the gaze of the room, and turned his back on it and on me, leaning his elbows on the bar again and engaging in talk with the barman, who stood more erect now, I thought, and held his head higher, with the air of a man receiving some high honour.
And just then, "All aboard!" we heard the stage-driver intone at the door.
When we came forth again there were only two horses before the hotel.
"The red-headed man and his friend are gone," thought I, as I climbed to my place, and away we lumbered through the night, the great headlights throwing their radiance forward on the road in overlapping cones that sped before us, the darkness chasing us up behind.