in front of him he seemed to be
carelessly lounging, like a man with time on his hands, peace before
him.

"Who was your nigger last year, young feller?" he asked, with good-humor
in his words. He was reading Tom's eyes as a prize fighter reads his
opponent's, watching every change of feature, every strain of facial
muscle. Before young Hargus had put tension on his sinews to draw his
weapon, Lambert had read his intention.

The muzzle of the pistol was scarcely free of the scabbard when Lambert
cleared the two yards between them in one stride. A grip of the wrist, a
twist of the arm, and the gun was flung across the room. Tom struggled
desperately, not a word out of him, striking with his free hand. Sinewy
as he was, he was only a toy in Lambert's hands.

"I don't want to have any trouble with you, kid," said Lambert,
capturing Tom's other hand and holding him as he would have held a boy.
"Put on your hat and go home."

Lambert released him, and turned as if he considered the matter ended.
At his elbow a man stood, staring at him with insolent, threatening
eyes. He was somewhat lower of stature than Lambert, thick in the
shoulders, firmly set on the feet, with small mustache, almost colorless
and harsh as hog bristles. His thin eyebrows were white, his hair but a
shade darker, his skin light for an outdoors man. This, taken with his
pale eyes, gave him an appearance of bloodless cruelty which the sneer
on his lip seemed to deepen and express.

Behind Lambert men were holding Tom Hargus, who had made a lunge to
recover his gun. He heard them trying to quiet him, while he growled and
whined like a wolf in a trap. Lambert returned the stranger's stare,
withholding anything from his eyes that the other could read, as some
men born with a certain cold courage are able to do. He went back to the
bar, the man going with him shoulder to shoulder, turning his malevolent
eyes to continue his unbroken stare.

"Put up that gun!" the fellow said, turning sharply to Tom Hargus, who
had wrenched free and recovered his weapon. Tom obeyed him in silence,
picked up his hat, beat it against his leg, put it on.

"You're the Duke of Chimney Butte, are you?" the stranger inquired,
turning again with his sneer and cold, insulting eyes to Lambert, who
knew him now for Sim Hargus, foreman for Berry Kerr.

"If you know me, there's no need for us to be introduced," Lambert
returned.

"Duke of Chimney Butte!" said Hargus with immeasura