"Anythin' in it?" he replied, without lifting his eyes.

"No; I'm thirsty and hot."

"I guessed that was about the figger," he remarked, getting up leisurely
and beginning to mix the drink with his back to me.

I used the opportunity to look round the room. Three steps from me stood
a tall man, lazily leaning with his right arm on the bar, his fingers
touching a half-filled glass. He seemed to be gazing past me into the
void, and thus allowed me to take note of his appearance. In shirt-
sleeves, like the bar-keeper, he had a belt on in which were two large
revolvers with white ivory handles. His face was prepossessing, with
large but not irregular features, bronzed fair skin, hazel eyes, and
long brown moustache. He looked strong and was lithe of form, as if he
had not done much hard bodily work. There was no one else in the room
except a man who appeared to be sleeping at a table in the far corner
with his head pillowed on his arms.

As I completed this hasty scrutiny of the room and its inmates, the bar-
keeper gave me my squash, and I drank eagerly. The excitement had made
me thirsty, for I knew that the crisis must be at hand, but I
experienced no other sensation save that my heart was thumping and my
throat was dry. Yawning as a sign of indifference (I had resolved to be
as deliberate as the Sheriff) I put my hand in my pocket on the
revolver. I felt that I could draw it out at once.

I addressed the bar-keeper:

"Say, do you know the folk here in Osawotamie?"