Riley first swore, then laughed and reseated himself on the case. Jack Murray, passing by, stopped and sneered openly. It was obvious that Jack was in liquor.
"He don't care how much he picks on you, does he?" observed Jack.
Riley Tyler did not move hand or foot. But a subtle change took place. Iron turning into steel undergoes such a metamorphosis. The sixth sense of an observing old gentleman across the street and directly in line with Jack Murray informed its owner of the sudden chill in the air. The observing old gentleman, whose name was Wildcat Simms, oozed backward through a doorway into the Old Hickory saloon.
"Why are you walking like a crab, Wildcat?" queried his friend the bartender.
"Because Jack Murray is talking to Riley Tyler."
The bartender, wise in his generation, was well able to fill in the rest for himself. He joined the old gentleman behind a window at one side of the line of fire.
Riley Tyler, meanwhile, was fixedly regarding Jack Murray.
"Meaning?" said Riley Tyler.
Jack Murray came right out into the open. "Ain't you able to stand up for yourself no more?"
There it was—the deliberate insult. Followed the movement so swift no eye could follow. But Riley's gun caught. Jack Murray's didn't. When the smoke began to wreathe upward in the windless air, Jack Murray was calmly walking away up in the street and Riley Tyler was hunched across the packing case. Blood was running down the boards of the packing case and seeping through the cracks in the sidewalk.