Toward midnight the bolt lifted!
Shoo!
The door opened, and Sandy entered, backed up against the wall by the door, and stood there, tall and silent.
His great beard was trimmed a little, his bushy hair carefully combed behind his ears, and the necktie was now subdued into a neat love-knot, in spite of its old persistent habit of twisting around and fluttering out over his left shoulder. His eye met the Parson's but did not quail.
The bar-keeper settled down gracefully behind the bags of sand, so that his eyes only remained visible above the horizon.
The head of the "Gay Roosters" tilted a table up till it made a respectable barricade for his breast, and the crowd silently settled back in the corners, packed tighter than sardines in a tin box.
You might have heard a mouse, had it crossed the floor. Even the fretful fire seemed to hold for the time its snappish red tongue, and the wind without to lean against the door and listen.
The Parson slowly arose from the table. He had his right hand in his pocket, and was very pale.
Experienced shootists, old hands at mortal combat with their kind, glanced from man to man, measured every motion, every look, with all the intense eagerness of artists who are favored with one great and especial sight, not to be met again. Others held their heads down, and only waited in a confused sort of manner for the barking of the bull-dogs.
Neither of Sandy's hands were visible; but, as the Parson took a few steps forward, and partly drew his hand from his pocket, Sandy's right one came up like a steel spring, and the ugly black muzzle of a six-shooter was in the Parson's face.