ere's how, boys," he said with loud facetiousness, and lifted the
cup.

The burly man, who had apparently been awakened by the words, uncoiled
himself, came to crouch with one arm supporting his body on the
table-top and--all in the same lithe movement--drew his big-caliber
revolver from the holster.

"Don't drink that stuff. It's pizen," he shouted, and with the last
word his weapon flamed.

The tin cup flew from the saloon man's hand. A shout of laughter rose
from the crowd at the two games; then the pool-balls clicked again
and--

"Raise you ten," a poker-player said.

Breckenbridge's guide beckoned to the man who had done the shooting.
He came across the room, shoving his gun back into the holster, a
rather thickly built man but well-knit and there was a soft spring in
his slowest movements which suggested snake-like quickness. He was
dark-eyed, and his hair was a mat of close black curls. The
cattle-buyer nodded, to indicate the introduced one.

"This," he said, "is Mr. Breckenbridge, one of Johnny Behan's
deputies."

And--

"This is Curly Bill."

Young Breckenbridge smiled as usual and stretched forth his right
hand. But the eyes of Curly Bill were narrow and his hand came out
slowly. There was that in his whole manner which said he was on guard,
watching every movement of the deputy.

And for this there was good reason. It was not long since Curly Bill
had stood in very much the same attitude on Tombstone's street facing
Town Marshal White, the only difference being that his right hand on
that occasion had been proffering his pistol, butt foremost, to the
officer. And in the passing of the instant while Marshal White had
touched the weapon with his fingertips the forty-five had swiftly
reversed ends, to spit forth one leaden slug.

The officer had dropped in the dust of the roadway and Curly Bill had
ridden out of town with a thousand dollars on his head. A thousand
dollars was a thousand dollars and there was no telling what a man who
wore a nickel-plated star might have up his sleeve.

"Mr. Breckenbridge," the cattle-buyer said as the two palms met, "is
here on civil business."

The eyes of Curly Bill resumed their normal shape. His fingers
tightened over the deputy's.

"Howdy," he said. "What yo' going to have?"

While the sting of the cow-town whisky was still rankling in their
throats a man entered the front door.

"Oh, Bill," he called across the room, "your hoss is daid."

Desertin