Harkutt's face darkened grimly. It was indeed as Billings had said.
The pitiable weakness of the man's manner not only made his desperation
inadequate and ineffective, but even lent it all the cheapness of
acting. And, as if to accent his simulation of a part, his fingers,
feebly groping in his shirt bosom, slipped aimlessly and helplessly
from the shining handle of a pistol in his pocket to wander hesitatingly
towards the bottle on the counter.

Harkutt took the bottle, poured out a glass of the liquor, and pushed
it before his companion, who drank it eagerly. Whether it gave him more
confidence, or his attention was no longer diverted, he went on
more collectedly and cheerfully, and with no trace of his previous
desperation in his manner. "Come, Harkutt, buy my place. It's a bargain,
I tell you. I'll sell it cheap. I only want enough to get away with.
Give me twenty-five dollars and it's yours. See, there's the papers--the
quitclaim--all drawn up and signed." He drew the roll of paper from his
pocket again, apparently forgetful of the adjacent weapon.

"Look here, 'Lige," said Harkutt, with a business-like straightening of
his lips, "I ain't buyin' any land in Tasajara,--least of all yours on
the creek. I've got more invested here already than I'll ever get back
again. But I tell you what I'll do. You say you can't go back to your
shanty. Well, seein' how rough it is outside, and that the waters of
the creek are probably all over the trail by this time, I reckon you're
about right. Now, there's five dollars!" He laid down a coin sharply on
the counter. "Take that and go over to Rawlett's and get a bed and
some supper. In the mornin' you may be able to strike up a trade with
somebody else--or change your mind. How did you get here? On your hoss?"

"Yes."