liquor; under
its influence his pleasant manner had fled, and he was picking on Injun.
The dislike that Dorgan concealed during his sober moments had reached
the point at which he demanded that Injun be put out of the tent. It was
a place for white men, not for Injuns. Injun was not afraid of Dorgan,
and had no idea of leaving, so Dorgan was going to put him out. Injun
wasn't going to let Dorgan put him out.

At this moment Whitey arrived. What would have happened to an unarmed
boy against a drunken, armed man or to two unarmed boys, for Whitey
started to interfere, is something else we never shall know, for a
cowboy put in his oar.

You know that a cowboy remains a "boy" until he is old enough to die.
This one was sixty, he wasn't a typical puncher at all. He had a thin,
hawk-like face, steady gray eyes, rather long hair which also was gray
like his moustache and goatee. He had been a soldier and an Indian
fighter, and he looked it. As Dorgan lurched toward the boys, who stood
tense, with flashing eyes, and prepared for resistance, this cowboy
stepped between, and spoke to Dorgan.

"I wouldn't do that if I was you," he said, and he spoke in a sort of
drawl, but there didn't seem to be any drawl in his cool, gray eyes. In
spite of his condition Dorgan appeared to realize this, for he paused
uncertainly. "I don't hold myself up as no defender o' Injuns," the old
puncher went on calmly, "but I've had a bit o' truck with 'em, fer an'
ag'inst, I'm some judge of 'em, an' I reck'n this one c'n stay right
here."

Dorgan began to stiffen a little and his fingers clutched, as one's will
when one thinks of reaching for a gun. The other man had a gun, too, but
he made not the slightest movement toward it, and he spoke even more
quietly than before.

"If I was you," he repeated, "bein' in th' c'ndition you're in, I'd beat
it. You may have objections for t' state, thinkin' this ain't none o'
my business, an' you c'n state 'em now--or f'rever hold your peace."

Dorgan looked around the tent, as if for moral support, but didn't find
any. A singular quiet had fallen on the place; a sort of disconcerting
quiet. A warning ray of sense must have come into Dorgan's fuddled brain
as he looked again at the old puncher, for without a word he stumbled
out into the darkness.

"That was mighty fine of you," Whitey said warmly, but the old man
didn't seem to hear him.

He sat down and built a cigarette, and when it was lighted began to