"Come out of here, Faith Doolittle," stormed Hiram, as he saw his protests were of no avail, "or you'll have me going it in a minute." He, too, began to feel the tempting influence of the green cloth, the glittering money-heaps, and the feverish gayety of the ribald crowd.
As Hiram started to lead Faith to the door they were stopped by Shorty.
"Nick," he called to the bartender, "my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Hill—Bunkco Hill—of Boston." The slang name for the innocence of the couple caught the crowd's fancy. They quickly formed a circle around them.
"Pleased to know you," Nick observed from the bar. "What's your drink?" He began filling glasses with whiskey.
This time Hiram's indignation was effectual. Grasping his now-frightened spouse by the arm, he fiercely drew her away, the cow-boys laughingly letting them go, with polite bows, and bits of advice called good-naturedly after them.
It was the sport of children, as indeed these men were to a great extent—crude, rough, but with a sweetness not to be denied and a decency that it might seem strange to find in such a place. So far their fun might go, but they knew where to stop, and Faith Doolittle's gentle face was its own protection. They watched Hiram nervously leading his wife along the platform down the line. Then they turned back to the saloon and amused themselves by giving imitations of the quaint visitors, until the place rang with their boisterous merriment.
Suddenly there was a rattle of spurs and a noise from without as a tall cow-puncher lurched through the door.
In a moment there was silence. Every one knew the man.
"Hello, here's Cash now," observed Shorty.
The innocent gayety was forgotten. A different expression began to appear on the men's faces. In Jim's crowd it was one of sullen rebellion and suppressed indignation, in the other an expectant desire for real mischief. With Cash Hawkins's entrance that afternoon, history was made in Maverick.