CHAPTER II.

A REMINISCENT HOUR.


The policeman's shoulders stiffened, and he put one foot on the keg. He
made no other move; but if ever a man's back was eloquent of
determination, his was. From where I lay I could see the fingers of his
left hand shut tight over his thumb, pressing till the knuckles were
white and the cords in the back of his hand stood out in little ridges.
I'd seen _that_ before, and I recalled with a start when and where I'd
heard that soft, drawly voice. I knew I wasn't mistaken in the man,
though his face was turned from me, and I likewise knew that old Piegan
Smith was nearer kingdom come than he'd been for many a day, if he did
have the drop on the man with the scarlet jacket. He was holding his
pistol on a double back-action, rapid-fire gun-fighter, and only the
fact that Piegan was half drunk and the other performing an impersonal
duty had so far prevented the opening of a large-sized package of
trouble. While on the surface Smith had all the best of it, he needed
that advantage, and more, to put himself on an even footing with Gordon
MacRae in any dispute that had to be arbitrated with a Colt; for MacRae
was the cool-headed, virile type of man that can keep his feet and burn
powder after you've planted enough lead in his system to sink him in
swimming water.

There was a minute of nasty silence. Smith glowered behind his cocked