At present his features were calm and expressionless, while his small gray eyes shone with a half-vacant air; but beneath all this a close observer would have seen something more. He would have pronounced the stolidity a mere mask, and would have seen that not a man present but was keenly scrutinized. He would have said that it was as if a panther had donned a sheep's skin, for some particular purpose. And he would have been right.
"Come, Dement," said Neil McGuire, turning toward this man. "Come, let's go," and the two men elbowed their way from the room.
The remainder, such as had not departed, continued to converse in low tones upon the subject of the strange voice. Poynter was carelessly leaning back against the counter, holding a glass in one hand, while he listened intently to the remarks, although not appearing to do so.
"It may be all right, Touter, but it is mighty queer, anyhow. And then who is this fellow? Do you know—does anybody know, except that he appears to have plenty of money, and calls himself Clay Poynter?" distinctly uttered a bold, free tone, and the speaker turned his head toward the person alluded to.
He was a somewhat remarkable-looking man apparently five or six and twenty years of age. In form he was tall, and straight as an arrow, with a lithe suppleness in every movement, that, joined to his swarthy complexion, and long, straight black hair, in part confirmed the rumor that he had Indian blood in his veins.
"Ah, my dear Indian Polk," blandly interrupted Poynter, as he drew himself erect upon hearing these words. "You do not drink. Allow me to offer you a glass of brandy!" and with a lightning-like movement he hurled the heavy glassful at the head of the young man.
But, quick as was the action, the missile was eluded by an adroit duck of the head, and Polk sprung forward with a fierce curse, lunging out with his clenched fist a fearful blow as he did so. The blow fell upon Poynter's half-averted cheek, tearing the skin as if cut with a knife; but not a quiver or a motion was the result of the blow.
Before the assailant could recover his balance, Poynter's left hand clutched his throat, and then the massive fist shot out, taking Polk full between the eyes, with such crushing force that he was hurled clear across the room, where he fell head-first in a senseless heap beneath a table.
Coolly wiping the blood-spots from his shirt-front with a handkerchief, Poynter turned to the bar without another glance at the fallen man, and called for a glass of brandy. Henderson promptly served it, at the same time whispering:
"You'd better look out, Mr. Poynter, fer 'Injun' hain't no baby, an' 'll hev y'ur blood fer this, ef so be he kin. He's a devil, shore!"