“I reckon you have.” The man’s manner was so dry that Still cut his eye at him. “Why don’t you try him with a compromise?” Still looked at him sharply; but he was washing a glass, and his face was as impassive as a mask.
“D—n him! I wouldn’t compromise with him to save his life,” said Still. “D’ you think I’d compromise with a man as is aspersed my character?”
“I d’n’ know. I hear there’s to be a jury; and I always heard, if there’s one thing the L—d don’ know, it’s how a jury’s goin’ to decide.”
“I ain’t afeared of that jury,” said Still, on whom the whiskey was working. “I’ve got——” He caught a look of sharpness on the man’s face and changed. “I ain’t afeared o’ no jury—that jury or no other. And I ain’t afeared o’ Jacquelin Gray nor Mr. Steve Allen neither. I ain’t afeared o’ no man as walks.”
“How about them as rides?” asked the bar-keeper, dryly.
The effect was electric.
“What d’you know about them as rides?” asked Still, surlily, his face pale.
“Nothin’ but what I hear. I hear they’s been a rider seen roun’ Red Rock of nights, once or twice lately, ain’t nobody caught up with.”
“Some o’ these scoundrels been a tryin’ to skeer me,” said Still, with an affectation of indifference. “But they don’t know me. I’ll try how a bullet’ll act on ’em next time I see one of ’em.”
“I would,” said the bar-keeper. “You’se seen him, then? I heard you had.”