It seemed that an individual there present, Markle by name--a tall,
histrionic, dark man with a tossing mane--conceived himself to have been
insulted by some one whose name Keith did not catch, and had that very
afternoon issued warning that he would "shoot on sight." Some of the older
men were advising him to go slow.

"But, gentlemen," cried Markle heatedly, "none of you would stand such
conduct from anybody! What are we coming to? I'll get that----as sure as
God made little apples."

"That's all right; I don't blame yo'," argued Calhoun. Bennett. "Do not
misunderstand me, suh. I agree with yo', lock, stock, an' barrel. My point
is that yo' must be circumspect. Challenge him, that's the way."

"He isn't worth my challenge, sir, nor the challenge of any decent man. You
know that, sir,"

"Well, street shootings have got to be a little, a little----"

He fell silent, and Keith, looked up in surprise to see why. A man was
slowly passing the table. He was a thick, tall, strong man, moving with a
freedom that bespoke smoothly working muscles. His complexion was florid;
and this, in conjunction with a sweeping blue-black moustache, gave him
exactly the appearance of a gambler or bartender. Only as he passed the
table and responded gravely to the formal salutes, Keith caught a flash of
his eye. It was gray, hard as steel, forceful, but so far from being cold
it seemed to glow and change with an inner fire, The bartender impression
was swept into limbo forever.

"That's one good reason why," said Calhoun Bennett, when this man had gone