ppy. Instead, everyone overflowed with good nature, gossip,
questions about his work, and the danger in him crystallized. He
registered cold reasons for his disgust.

Beginning in the first person, he loathed himself as a thick-headed
ass for talking to Betty as he had done; as well put a burr under one's
saddle and then feel surprise because the horse bucks. He passed on
to the others with equal precision. Captain Lorrimer was as dirty as a
greaser; and like a greaser, loose-lipped, unshaven. Chick Stewart was a
born fool, and a fool by self-culture, as his never changing grin amply
proved. Lew Perkins sat in the corner on a shaky old apple barrel and
brushed back his long mustaches to spit at the cuspidor--and miss it. If
this were Vic Gregg's saloon he would teach the old loafer more accuracy
or break his neck.

"How are you, Gregg?" murmured some one behind him.

He turned and found Sheriff Pete Glass with his right hand already
spread on the bar while he ordered a drink for two. That was one of the
sheriff's idiosyncrasies; he never shook hands if he could avoid it, and
Gregg hated him senselessly, bitterly, for it. No doubt every one in the
room noticed, and they would tell afterwards how the sheriff had avoided
shaking hands with Vic Gregg. Cheap play for notoriety, thought Gregg;
Glass was pushing the bottle towards him.

"Help yourself," said Gregg.

"This is on me, Vic."

"I most generally like to buy the first drink."

Pete Glass turned his head slowly, for indeed all his motions were
leisurely and one could not help wondering at the stories of his
exploits, the tales of his hair-trigger alertness. Perhaps these half
legendary deeds sent the thrill of uneasiness through Vic Gregg; perhaps
it was owing to the singular hazel eyes, with little splotches of red
in them; very mild eyes, but one could imagine anything about them.
Otherwise there was nothing exceptional in Glass, for he stood well
under middle height, a starved figure, with a sinewy crooked neck, as
if bent on looking up to taller men. His hair was sandy, his face tawny
brown, his shirt a gray blue, and every one knew his dusty roan horse;
by nature, by temperament and by personal selection he was suited to
blend into a landscape of sage-dotted plains or sand. Tireless as a lobo
on the trail, swift as a bobcat in fight, hunted men had been known to
ride in and give themselves up when they heard that Pete Glass was after
them.

"Anyway you