lazy, cool glance which one man after another cast upon me, as I went
by. Assuming an air of indecision I threaded my way through the chairs
uptilted against the sides of the billiard-tables. I had drained a glass
of Bourbon whisky before I realized that these apparently careless men
were stirred by some emotion which made them more cautious, more silent,
more warily on their guard than usual. The gamblers and loafers, too,
had taken "back seats" this evening, whilst hard-working men of the
farmer class who did not frequent the expensive bar of the Carvell House
were to be seen in front. It dawned upon me that the matter was serious,
and was being taken seriously.

The silence was broken from time to time by some casual remark of no
interest, drawled out in a monotone; every now and then a man invited
the "crowd" to drink with him, and that was all. Yet the moral
atmosphere was oppressive, and a vague feeling of discomfort grew upon
me. These men "meant business."

Presently the door on my left opened--Sheriff Johnson came into the
room.

"Good evenin'," he said; and a dozen voices, one after another, answered
with "Good evenin'! good evenin', Sheriff!" A big frontiersman, however,
a horse-dealer called Martin, who, I knew, had been on the old vigilance
committee, walked from the centre of the group in front of the bar to
the Sheriff, and held out his hand with:

"Shake, old man, and name the drink." The

Sheriff took the proffered hand as if mechanically, and turned to the
bar with "Whisky--straight." Sheriff Johnson was a man of medium height,