he said. "They hain't
nothin' but low-down trash nohow-- They're jealous, but thar's some
right upstandin' men-folks hyar fer ye ter keep company with. I reckon
fust off ye needs a leetle dram--hits's right chilly outside."

As he proffered a flask, Brent caught the glitter of his eye, and knew
that this time it would not be easy to decline. The crowd was drifting
forward, and through the closing lane of humanity, Bud Sellers glided
rapidly to a place near its front. His hand was inside his coat
now--where the holster lay.

"A leetle dram won't do ye no harm," insisted the man of the blood-shot
eyes and then as he caught the quiet contempt on the girl's face, his
manner changed to truculent bullying. "Folks says ye wants ter be
treated ther same as a man--an' any man thet holds I hain't good enough
ter drink with--thet man's my enemy."

Brent hesitated to draw his weapon lest in such a situation it should
provoke a holocaust. Yet he felt that in a moment he might need it.
Then as he stood, still uncertain, he saw the giant who had until now
looked on with detached emotionlessness come elbowing his way through
the press, much as an elephant goes through small timber, uprooting
obstacles and tossing them aside as he moves.

But Alexander had gone dead white with the pallor of outraged wrath.
Her lips had tightened and her eyes taken on a quality like the blue
flame which is the hottest fire that burns.

Then suddenly she moved with a swiftness that was electric and stood,
before her purpose could be guessed, with a heavy-calibered revolver
outthrust into the face of the man whose pistol hand had held the
whiskey bottle. The flask crashed into splinters from an abruptly
relaxed grip.

"I don't drink--without hit pleasures me ter drink," said the girl with
an inflexible coldness and levelness of voice, yet one no more
unfalteringly firm than the hand which held the gun. "Hit won't never
pleasure me ter drink with a man I wouldn't wipe my feet on. Ye hain't
a man nohow--ye're jest a pole-cat."

The bearded jaw dropped in amazement, and a sense of the nearness of
death intruded itself upon Lute Brown's thoughts. Still since even
such a situation called for a retort he essayed one in a falter that
travestied the boldness of his words.

"When a man names me thet name--I wants him ter come _towards_ me. Of
course ye hain't no man though."

"I'm man enough ter take yore measure," she flung back at him, "an