wet with the black mud of the corral.

The next morning, when the exchange was empty, the post-trader turned
from arranging cans of condensed milk upon an upper shelf to face the
sergeant's revolver. He threw up his hands to the level of his ears
as though expressing sharp unbelief, and waited in silence. The
sergeant advanced until the gun rested on the counter, Its muzzle
pointing at the pit of Cahill's stomach. "You or me has got to leave
this post," said the sergeant, "and I can't desert, so I guess it's
up to you."

"What did you talk for?" asked Cahill. His attitude was still that of
shocked disbelief, but his tone expressed a full acceptance of the
situation and a desire to temporize.

"At first I thought it might be that new 'cruity' in F Troop,"
explained the sergeant "You came near making me kill the wrong man.
What harm did I do you by saying you kept bar for McTurk? What's
there in that to get hot about?"

"You said I run with the Whyos."

"What the h--l do I care what you've done!" roared the sergeant. "I
don't kmow nothing about you, but I don't mean you should shoot me in
the back. I'm going to tell this to my bunky, an' if I get shot up,
the Troop'll know who done it, and you'll hang for it. Now, what are
you going to do?"

Cahill did not tell what he would do; for, from the other store, the
low voice of Mary Cahill called, "Father! Oh, father!"