the Mexican vanished, and with it the old hunger to be in the thick of Wild
Western life. I was afraid that I was going to see a man killed without
being able to lift a hand to prevent it.

The rangers marched me between them down the street and into the corner
saloon. Dick held me half behind him with his left hand while Jim sauntered
ahead. Strangest of all the things that had happened was the sudden
silencing of the noisy crowd.

The Mexican was not there. His companions, Bud and Bill, as Buell had
called them, were sitting at a table, and as Jim Williams walked into the
center of the room they slowly and gradually rose to their feet. One was a
swarthy man with evil eyes and a scar on his cheek; the other had a brick-
red face and a sandy mustache with a vicious curl. Neither seemed to be
afraid, only cautious.

"We're all lookin' for thet Greaser friend of yourn," drawled Jim. "I shore
want to see him bad."

"He's gone, Williams," replied one. "Was in somethin' of a rustle, an'
didn't leave no word."

"Wal, I reckon he's all we're lookin' for this pertickler minnit."

Jim spoke in a soft, drawling voice, and his almost expressionless tone
seemed to indicate pleasant indifference; still, no one could have been
misled by it, for the long, steady gaze he gave the men and his cool
presence that held the room quiet meant something vastly different. No
reply was offered. Bud and Bill sat down, evidently to resume their
card-playing. The uneasy silence broke to a laugh, then to subdued voices,