the eye--that punch didn't travel more'n six
inches. But it slammed Sandy down in a corner like he's been shot.

"He was too surprised to be much hurt, though, and drags himself up to
his feet, makin' a pass at his pocket at the same time. Then he came
again, silent and thinkin' of blood, I s'pose, with a knife in his hand.

"This time the tenderfoot didn't wait. He went in with a sort of hitch
step, like a dancer. Ferguson's knife carved the air beside the
tenderfoot's head, and then the skinny boy jerked up his right and his
left--one, two--into Sandy's mouth. Down he goes again--slumps down as
if all the bones in his body was busted--right down on his face. The
other feller grabs his shoulder and jerks him over on his back.

"He stands lookin' down at him for a moment, and then he says, sort of
thoughtful: 'He isn't badly hurt, but I suppose I shouldn't have hit him
twice.'

"Can you beat that, Steve? You can't!

"When Sandy come to he got up to his feet, wobbling--seen his guns--went
over and scooped 'em up, with the eye of the tenderfoot on him all the
time--scooped 'em up--stood with 'em all poised--and so he backed out
through the door. It wasn't any pretty thing to see. The tenderfoot, he
turned to the bar again.

"'If you don't mind,' he says, 'I think I'll switch my order and take
that whisky instead. I seem to need it.'

"'Son!' says I, 'there ain't nothin' in the house you can't have for the
askin'. Try some of this!'

"And I pulled out a bottle of my private stock--you know the stuff; I've
had it twenty-five years, and it was ten years old when I got it. That
ain't as much of a lie as it sounds.

"He takes a glass of it and sips it, sort of suspicious, like a wolf
scentin' the wind for an elk in winter. Then his face lighted up like a
lantern had been flashed on it. You'd of thought that he was lookin' his
long-lost brother in the eye from the way he smiled at me. He holds the
glass up and lets the light come through it, showin' the little traces
and bubbles of oil.

"'May I know your name?' he says.

"It made me feel like Rockerbilt, hearin' him say that, in _that_
special voice.

"'Me,' says I, 'I'm Flanders.'

"'It's an honour to know you, Mr. Flanders,' he says. 'My name is
Anthony Bard.'

"We shook hands, and his grip was three fourths man, I'll tell the
world.

"'Good liquor,' says he, 'is like a fine lady. Only a gentleman can
appreciate it. I drink to you, sir.'

"So that's how