So the meal went on, and the only sign, to the most experienced eye, was that the chairs were placed a little far back from the edge of the table, a most necessary condition when men may have to rise rapidly or get at their holsters for a quick draw.
Calamity Ben bearing a mighty dish of bread pudding, passed directly behind the chair of the stranger. The whole table watched with a sudden keenness, and they saw Bard turn, ever so slightly, just as Calamity passed behind the chair.
“I say,” he said, “may I have a bit of hot water to put in this coffee?”
“Sure,” said Calamity, and went on, but the whole table knew that the stranger was on his guard.
The mutual suspicion gave a tenseness to the atmosphere, as if it were charged with the electricity of a coming storm, a tingling waiting which made the men prone to become silent and then talk again in fitful outbursts. Or it might be said that it was like a glass full of precipitate which only waits for the injection of a single unusual substance before it settles to the bottom and leaves the remaining liquid clear. It was for the unusual, then, that the entire assembly waited, feeling momentarily that it must be coming, for the strain could not endure.
As for Bard, he stuck by his original apparent indifference. For he still felt sure that the real William Drew was behind this elaborate deception and the thing for which he waited was some revelation of the hand of the master. The trumps which he felt he held was in being forewarned; he could not see that the others knew his hand.
He said to Lawlor: “I think a man named Nash works on this ranch. I expected to see him at supper here.”
“Nash?” answered Lawlor. “Sure, he used to be foreman here. Ain’t no more. Nope—I couldn’t stand for his lip. Didn’t mind him getting fresh till he tried to ride me. Then I turned him loose. Where did you meet him?”
“While I was riding in this direction.”
“Want to see him bad?”
The other moistened his lips.
“Rather! He killed my horse.”
A silence fell on these who were within hearing. They would not have given equal attention to the story of the killing of a man.
“How’d he get away with it?”
“The Saverack was between us. Before I could get my gun out he was riding out of range. I’ll meet him and have another talk some day.”
“Well, the range ain’t very small.”
“But my dear fellow, it’s not nearly as big as my certainty of meeting this—cur.”
There is something in a low, slow voice more thrilling than the thunder of actual rage. Those who heard glanced to one another with thoughtful eyes. They were thinking of Nash, and thinking of him with sympathy.
Little Duffy, squat and thick-set, felt inspiration descend on him. He turned to Bard on his left.
“That ain’t a full-size forty-five, is it—that one you’re packin’?”
“Doesn’t it look it?” answered Bard.
“Nope. Holster seems pretty small to me.”
“It’s the usual gun, I’m sure,” said Bard, and pulled the weapon from the leather.
Holding the butt loosely, his trigger finger hooked clear around the far side of the guard, he showed the gun.
“I was wrong,” nodded Duffy unabashed, “that’s the regular kind. Let’s have a look at it.”
And he stretched out his hand. No one would ever have guessed how closely the table followed what now happened, for each man began talking in a voice even louder than before. It was as if they sought to cover the stratagem of Duffy with their noise.
“There’s nothing unusual about the gun,” said Bard, “but I’d be glad to let you have it except that I’ve formed a habit of never letting a six-shooter get away from me. It’s a foolish habit, I know, but I can’t lose it. If there’s any part you’d like to see, just name it.”
“Thanks,” answered Duffy. “I guess I’ve seen all I want of it.”
Calamity had failed; Duffy had failed. It began to look as if force of downright numbers must settle the affair.
CHAPTER XXVIII
SALLY BREAKS A MIRROR
As Sally had remarked the night before, one does not pay much attention to a toilet when one rises at 5 a.m. At least that is the rule, but Sally, turning out with a groan in the chill, dark room, shut off the alarm, lighted her lamp, and set about the serious task of dressing. A woman, after all, is much like a diplomatic statesman; a hint along certain lines is more to her than a sworn statement.
She had secured a large mirror, and in front of this she laboured patiently for a full ten minutes, twisting her hair this way and that, and using the comb and brush vigorously. Now and then, as she worked, she became aware that a fluff of hair rolling down low over her forehead did amazing things to her face and brought her from Sally Fortune into the strange dignity of a “lady.” But she could not complete any of the manoeuvres, no matter how promisingly they started. In the end she dashed a handful of hairpins on the floor and wound the hair about her head with a few swift turns.
She studied the sullen, boyish visage which looked back at her. After all, she would be unmercifully joked if she were to appear with her hair grown suddenly fluffy and womanly—it would become impossible for her to run the eating-place without the assistance of a man, and a fighting man at that. So what was the use? She threw the mirror crashing on the floor; it splintered in a thousand pieces.
“After all,” she murmured aloud, “do I want to be a woman?”
The sullen mouth undoubtedly answered “No”; the wistful eyes undoubtedly replied in another key. She shrugged the question away and stepped out of her room toward the kitchen, whistling a tune to raise her spirits.
“Late, Sally,” said the cook, tossing another hot cake on the growing pile which surmounted the warmer.
“Sure; I busted my mirror,” said Sally.
The cook stared at her in such astonishment that he allowed a quantity of dough to fall from the dish cupped in the hollow of his arm; it overflowed the griddle-iron.
“Blockhead!” shouted Sally. “Watch your step!”
She resumed, when the dough had been rescued by somewhat questionable means: “D’you think a girl can dress in the dark?”
But the cook had had too much experience with his employer to press what seemed a tender point. He confined his attention to the pancakes.
“There ain’t no fool worse than a he-fool,” continued Sally bitterly. “Which maybe you think a girl can dress without a mirror?”
Since this taunt brought no response from her victim, she went on into the eating-room. It was already filling, and the duties of her strenuous day began.
They continued without interruption hour after hour, for the popularity of her restaurant had driven all competition out of Eldara, a result which filled the pocket-book and fattened the bank account of Sally Fortune, but loaded unnumbered burdens onto her strong shoulders. For she could not hire a waiter to take her place; every man who came into the eating-room expected to be served by the slim hands of Sally herself, and he expected also some trifling repartee which would make him pay his bill with a grin.
The repartee dragged with Sally to-day, almost to sullenness, and when she began to grow weary in the early afternoon,