Buck looked back at the little man—let his insolent gaze travel up and down the fancy waistcoat, the string tie, the sharp face with its mustache and narrow mouth and black eyes. He looked longest at the eyes, because they didn't seem to be scared.
He looked at the little guy, and the little guy looked at Buck, and finally Buck looked away. He tried to look wary as he did it, as if he was just fixing to make sure that nobody was around to sneak-shoot him—but you could see he'd been stared down.
When he looked back at the little guy, he was scowling. "Who're you, mister?" he said. "I never seen you before."
"My name is Jacob Pratt, sir. I'm just traveling through to San Francisco. I'm waiting for the evening stage."
"Drummer?"
"Excuse me?"
For a second Buck's face got ugly. "You heard me, mister. You a drummer?"
"I heard you, young man, but I don't quite understand. Do you mean, am I a musician? A performer upon the drums?"
"No, you goddam fool—I mean, what're you selling? Snake-bite medicine? Likker? Soap?"
"Why—I'm not selling anything. I'm a professor, sir."