"I guess they'll do nothing," suggested one. "Maybe they're afraid of our guns."
Just then the mournful sound of an Indian drum fell upon their ears, causing them all to start and look at one another. What did it mean? Were they gathering for the affray?
As they listened and waited Old Pete drew near and entered the building. He was a stranger there, and the men gazed with wonder and admiration upon the hardy prospector. His great stature, commanding presence, buckskin suit, hawk-like eye, and long, flowing beard streaked with gray, would have made him a marked man in any company. But his sudden appearance at such a time made a strong impression.
"Who is he? Where did he come from?" passed from lip to lip, as Pete strode up to the bar and confronted Perdue, who was standing blandly at his post.
"Any baccy?" he inquired, glancing at the array of black bottles along the wall.
"Plenty, pard. What's yer choice?"
"Yer best, an' I guess that'll be none too good."
"Now, what'll ye have next?" and Perdue rubbed his fat hands in anticipation of a new customer.
"A match."
"What! nothing more? What's yer brand?"