ow said, speaking in the
wheedling, ingratiating way that one addresses an irresponsible child or
a man in alcoholic paresis. The others appeared to find a subtle humor
in their comrade's mode of handling a granger. Morgan grinned with them
as if he found it funny himself.

One fellow stood a little apart from the rest of the band, studying
Morgan with an expression of insolence such as might well warrant the
belief that he held feud with all grangers and made their discomfiture,
dislodgment, and extermination the chief business of his life. This was
a man of unlikely proportions for a trade aback of a horse--short of
legs, heavy of body, long in the reach of his arms. His face was round
and full, fair for one who rode abroad in all seasons under sun and
storm, his teeth small and far apart.

This man said nothing, took no part in the side comment that passed
among his comrades, only grinned occasionally, his eyes unwaveringly on
Morgan's face. Morgan was drawn to note him particularly among this
mainly trifling and innocuous bunch, uneasily impressed by the cold
curiosity of his round, tigerish eyes. He thought the fellow appeared to
be calculating on how much blood a granger of that bulk contained, and
how long it would take him to drink it.

"You ain't got a twenty-two hid around in your pocket nowhere?" the
inquisitor pressed, with comically feigned surprise. Morgan denied the
ownership of even a twenty-two. "I'll have to feel over you and see--I
never saw a granger in my life that didn't tote a twenty-two," the Texan
declared, stepping up to Morgan to put his declaration into effect.

Morgan had stood through this mocking inquisition in careless posture,
elbows on the bar at his back, with as much good humor as if he were a
member of the band taking his turn as the butt of the evening's
merrymaking. Now, as the young Texan approached with the evident
intention of searching him for a weapon, Morgan came suddenly out of his
lounging posture into one of watchfulness and defense. He put up his
hand in admonitory gesture to stay the impending degradation.

"Hands off, pardner!" he warned.

The cowboy stopped, turned to his comrades in simulated amazement.

"Did you hear the pore feller make that noise?" he asked, turning his
head as if he listened, not quite convinced that his ears had not
deceived him.

"He's sick, he orto have a dose of turkentime for the holler horn," said
one.

"He's got the botts--drench