te and seek
a fight I really avoid one."

"So that's why they call you Panhandle Smith?" queried the girl,
meditatively. "I mean with the tone old man Hardman used. They call
me Angel. But that doesn't mean what it sounds, does it?"

"I can't figure you, Louise," replied Pan dubiously.

"I'm glad you can't.... Hello, there's Blinky and his pard Gus.
What're they up to?"

"They are looking pretty hard, but it can't be for you and me. They
saw us long ago."

"There! Hardman and Matthews, coming from behind the bar. There's a
private office in behind. You can see the door.... Panhandle, let me
tell you Hardman seldom shows up here."

Pan leisurely got to his feet. His eye quickly caught Matthews' black
sombrero, then the big ham of a face, with its drooping mustache. Pan
could not see anyone with him until they got out from behind the
crowded bar. Then Pan perceived that Matthews' companion was a stout
man, bearded, dressed like a prosperous rancher.

"Louise, is that man with Matthews the gentleman we have been
discussing?" asked Pan.

"That's the rich fat bloated ---- ---- ----," replied the girl with
eyes like a hawk. "You don't talk straight, Panhandle."

"I'm not quite so free as you are with bad language," replied Pan,
smiling down on her. Then with deft movement he hitched his belt round
farther forward on his hip. It was careless, it might have been
accidental, but it was neither. And the girl grasped its meaning. She
turned white under her paint, and the eyes that searched Pan were just
then like any other woman's.

"Cowboy, what're you going to do?" she whispered, reaching for him.

"I don't know exactly. You can never tell how actions are going to be
taken. But I mean well."

"Stop!" she called low after him. "You smiling devil!"

Pan moved leisurely in among the tables toward the bar and the two men
standing rather apart from the crowd. He maneuvered so that Matthews'
roving glance fell upon him. Then Pan advanced straight. He saw the
sheriff start, then speak hurriedly to Hardman.

Pan halted within six feet of both men. He might never have seen Jard
Hardman so far as any recognition was concerned. He faced a man of
about fifty years of age, rather florid of complexion, well fed and
used to strong drink.

"Excuse me," spoke Pan, with most consummate coolness, addressing the
shorter man. Apparently he did not see Matthews. "Are you Jard
Hardman?"

"Reckon I am, i