saloon. Most of the onlookers wore careless smiles, for the caliber of
these two was known, and no one expected violence; but Jasper Lanning,
at the door, stood with a sick face. He was praying in the silence.

Every one could hear Andrew say: "I hear you've been making a talk about
me, Buck?"

It was a fair enough opening. The blood ran more freely in the veins of
Jasper. Perhaps the quiet of his boy had not been altogether the quiet
of cowardice.

"Aw," answered Buck Heath, "don't you be takin' everything you hear for
gospel. What kind of talk do you mean?"

"He's layin' down," said Bill Dozier, and his voice was soft but audible
in the saloon. "The skunk!"

"I was about to say," said Andrew, "that I think you had no cause for
talk. I've done you no harm, Buck."

The hush in the saloon became thicker; eyes of pity turned on that
proved man, Jasper Lanning. He had bowed his head. And the words of the
younger man had an instant effect on Buck Heath. They seemed to
infuriate him.

"You've done me no harm?" he echoed. He let his voice out; he even
glanced back and took pleasurable note of the crowded faces behind the
dim windows of the saloon. Just then Geary, the saloon keeper, lighted
one of the big lamps, and at once all the faces at the windows became
black silhouettes. "You done me no harm?" repeated Buck Heath. "Ain't