It was during this uncomfortable interval of general sizing-up that the proprietor entered, a red-faced man and short of stature. He had been out to get a bucket of water; he set the pail down by the end of the bar and filled a tin cup from it.
“Here’s how, boys,” he said with loud facetiousness, and lifted the cup.
The burly man, who had apparently been awakened by the words, uncoiled himself, came to crouch with one arm supporting his body on the table-top and––all in the same lithe movement––drew his big-caliber revolver from the holster.
“Don’t drink that stuff. It’s pizen,” he shouted, and with the last word his weapon flamed.
The tin cup flew from the saloon man’s hand. A shout of laughter rose from the crowd at the two games; then the pool-balls clicked again and––
“Raise you ten,” a poker-player said.
Breckenbridge’s guide beckoned to the man who had done the shooting. He came across the room, shoving his gun back into the holster, a rather thickly built man but well-knit and there was a soft spring in his slowest movements which suggested snake-like quickness. He was dark-eyed, and his hair was a mat of close black curls. The cattle-buyer nodded, to indicate the introduced one.
“This,” he said, “is Mr. Breckenbridge, one of Johnny Behan’s deputies.”
And––