It was evident that Buck Priest was drunk this night. He was not a drinking man, but once a year Buck Priest would get drunk; and when he got drunk, he was so cold-blooded that even his own men did not wish to associate with him.
It seemed as if every man in the room were holding his breath. Park Reber got slowly to his feet, and Priest laughed harshly.
“You dirty old cow thief!”
Buck Priest fairly hissed the words at Reber.
“You sneakin’ old rustler!”
No one moved; no one spoke. The two men, one on each side of Buck Priest, were bent forward tensely, their eyes sweeping the room, ready to draw and shoot at the first move. Park Reber’s eyes blinked angrily, but he held still, staring at Buck Priest.
“I’m talkin’ to you, Reber,” said Priest slowly. “Callin’ you a thief. And you ain’t gut guts enough to deny it. You’ve rustled my cows just as long as you’re goin’ to, Reber. I’ve come into the lion’s den to tell yuh what I think of yuh, you cow thief!”
There could be but one answer to that accusation. Reber had been a gun-man, but of late years he had left that distinction to his hired men. He did not wear a belt and gun, but under his left arm-pit was a holstered Colt; and now he jerked back, reaching for this concealed gun.
It was what Buck Priest wanted, what he came there to force Park Reber to do—reach for a gun. His hand streaked down to his thigh and whipped up a big black-handled revolver. For a fraction of a second Park Reber’s life was not worth a penny. Something flashed between Reber and Priest just as Priest pulled the trigger—something that smashed against Priest’s hand and arm, partly ruining the shot which was intended for Park Reber’s heart.
The big gun thundered as Buck Priest jerked sidewise. Park Reber stepped backward against his chair, tripped and fell to the floor. Priest and his two men whirled and headed for the doorway, and the crowd gave them plenty of room.