nd spurred, his
calling of cowboy impressed in every line.

The girl paused, hand on the door, waiting to see what he wanted, and
turned back when he rested his arms on the cigar case, clicking the
glass with a coin. While she was making change for him, the cowboy stood
with his newly bought cigar in his mouth, scanning the register. He
seemed sober enough when standing still, save for the vacant,
liquor-dead look of his eyes.

"Who wrote that?" he asked, pointing to Morgan's name.

"That gentleman," the girl replied, placing his change before him.

The cowboy picked up his money with numb fingers, fumbled to put it in
his pocket, dropping it on the floor. He kicked at it with a curse and
let it lie, scowling meantime at Morgan with angry eyes.

"Too good to write your name next to mine, are you?" he sneered. "Afraid
it'd touch your fancy little handwritin', was you?"

"I didn't know it was your name, pardner," Morgan returned, conciliating
him as he would an irresponsible child. "Why, I'd walk a mile to write
my name next to yours any day. There was something on the book----"

"You spit on it! You spit on my name!" the foolish fellow charged,
laying hand to his pistol. "A man that's too good to write his name next
to mine's too good to stay in the same house with me. You'll hit the
breeze out of here, pardner, or you'll swaller lead!"

The girl came swiftly from behind the counter, and ran lightly to the
door. Morgan put up his hand to silence the young man, knowing well that
he could catch his slow arm before he could drag his gun two inches from
the holster.

"Keep your gun where it is, old feller," he suggested, rather than
warned, in good-natured tone. "I didn't mean any insult, but I'll take
my hat off and apologize to you if you want me to. There was a piece of
candy on the book right----"

"I'll put a piece of hot iron in your guts!" the cowboy threatened. He
leaned over the register, hand still on his pistol, and tore out the
offending page, crumpling it into a ball. "You'll eat this, then you'll
hit the road back where you come from!"

The girl was beckoning to somebody from the door. Morgan was more
annoyed and shamed by his part in this foolish scene than he was
disturbed by any feeling of danger. He stood watching the young man's
shooting arm. There was not more than five feet between them; a step, a
sharp clip on the jaw, and the young fool would be helpless. Morgan was
setting himself to act,