pistol, and the policeman faced the frowning gun, motionless, waiting
for the flutter of Piegan's eye that meant action. The gurgling keg was
almost empty when he spoke again.

"Don't be a fool, Smith," he said quietly. "You can't buck the whole
Force, you know, even if you managed to kill me. You know the sort of
orders we have about this whisky business. Put up your gun."

Piegan heard him, all right, but his pistol never wavered. His thin
lips were pinched close, so tight the scrubby beard on his chin stood
straight out in front; his chest was heaving, and the angry blood stood
darkly red under his tanned cheeks. Altogether, he looked as if his
trigger finger might crook without warning. It was one of those long
moments that makes a fellow draw his breath sharp when he thinks about
it afterward. If any one had made an unexpected move just then, there
would have been sudden death in that camp. And while the lot of us sat
and stood about perfectly motionless, not daring to say a word one way
or the other, lest the wrathful old cuss squinting down the gun-barrel
_would_ shoot, the policeman took his foot off the empty cause of the
disturbance, and deliberately turning his back on Piegan's leveled
six-shooter, walked calmly over to his waiting horse.

Smith stared after him, frankly astonished. Then he lowered his gun.
"The nerve uh the darned----Say! don't go off mad," he yelled, his anger
evaporating, changing on the instant to admiration for the other's
cold-blooded courage. "Yuh spilled all the whisky, darn yuh--but then I
guess yuh don't know any better'n t' spoil good stuff that away. No hard
feelin's, anyhow. Stop an' eat dinner with us, an' we'll call it
square."