and
turned and turned the glass, as if his mind were withdrawn a thousand
leagues from the noisy scene about him. But for all that apparently
wrapt and self-centered contemplation, Morgan knew the moment when Seth
Craddock looked his direction and discovered him. At that moment he
lifted his glass and drank.

Craddock turned to his companions, upon whom a quiet settled as they
drew together in brief conference. Presently the city marshal sauntered
out, leaving his comrades of the long trail to carry on their revelry
alone. A gangling young man, swart-faced, fired by the contending
crosses of alcoholic concoctions which he had swallowed, approached
Morgan where he leaned against the bar. This fellow straddled as if he
had a horse between his legs, and he was dusty and road-rough, but newly
shaved and clipped, and perfumed with all the strong scents of the
barber's stock.

"Good evenin', bud. How does your copperosticies seems to segastuate
this evenin'?" he hailed, in a bantering, insolent, overriding way.

"I'm able to be up and around and take a little grub," Morgan returned,
as good-humoredly as if there had been no insulting sneer in the
cowboy's words.

"I hear you're leaving town this evenin'?"

"I guess that's a mistake of the printer," Morgan said with casual ease.

The other men in the party drew around Morgan, some of them challenging
him with insolent glances, all of them holding their peace but the one
who had spoken, who appeared to have been selected for that office.

"A friend of mine told me you was hittin' the grit out of here tonight,"
the young man insisted, putting that in his voice which seemed to admit
no controversy. "This country ain't no place for a granger, bud;
farmin's the unhealthiest business here a man ever took up, they tell
me, he don't live no time at it. Sure, you're hittin' the road out of
here tonight--my friend appointed us a committee to see you off."

"I'm sorry to disappoint you, boys, but your friend's got the wrong
information on me and my movements, whoever he is. I'm goin' to hang
around this town some little time, till my farming tools come, anyhow.
Just pass that word along to your friend, will you, sport?"

"You ain't got erry gun stuck around in your pants, have you, bud?" the
Texan inquired with persuasive gentleness.

"Not the ghost of a gun."

"Grangers burn their eyebrows off and shoot theirselves through the feet
when they go totin' guns around," the fell