onfirmative
of our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making an
impression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a side
glance at us, he strode toward the bar.

"As there don't seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put up
my mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter," he
said. His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarseness
of frequent overstraining.

"Ye ain't got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye?" asked Mosby,
evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger.
We all looked at Briggs also; it was HIS affair after all--HE had
originated this opposition. To our surprise he said nothing.

The stranger leaned heavily on the counter.

"I was speaking to YOU," he said, with his eyes on Mosby, and slightly
accenting the pronoun with a tap of his revolver butt on the bar. "Ye
don't seem to catch on."

Mosby smiled feebly, and again cast an imploring glance at Briggs. To
our greater astonishment, Briggs said, quietly: "Why don't you answer
the stranger, Mosby?"

"Yes, yes," said Mosby, suavely, to the newcomer, while an angry flush
crossed his check as he recognized the position in which Briggs had
placed him. "Of course, you're welcome to what doings I hev here, but I
reckoned these gentlemen over there," with a vicious glance at Briggs,
"might fix ye up suthin' better; they're so pow'ful kind to your sort."

The stranger threw down a gold piece on the counter and said: "Fork out
your whisky, then," waited until his glass was filled, took it in his
hand, and then, drawing an empty chair to the stove, sat down beside
Briggs. "Seein' as you're that kind," he said, placing his heavy hand
on Briggs's knee, "mebbe ye kin tell me ef thar's a shanty or a cabin at
Rattlesnake that I kin get for a couple o' weeks. I saw an empty one at
the head o' the hill. You see, gennelmen," he added confidentially as
he swept the drops of whisky from his long mustache with his fingers and
glanced around our group, "I've got some business over at Bigwood," our
nearest town, "but ez a place to stay AT it ain't my style."

"What's the matter with Bigwood?" said Briggs, abruptly.

"It's too howlin', too festive, too rough; thar's too much yellin'
and shootin' goin' day and night. Thar's too many card sharps and gay
gamboliers cavortin' about the town to please me. Too much permiskus
soakin' at the bar and free jimjams. What I want is a qui