e likes of
us--me, f'r instance--and I want to git an answer!"

He leaned far out over the bar as if listening for the first word
before he hit him, but the stranger did not reply immediately.
Instead, with simple-minded directness he seemed to be studying on the
matter. The broad grin of the card players fell to a wondering stare
and every man leaned forward when, raising his sombre eyes from the
floor, the little man spoke.

"Why, yes," he said quietly, "I think I am."

"Yes, _what_?" yelled the barkeeper, astounded. "You think you're
what?"

"Now, say," protested the younger man. Then, apparently recognizing
the uselessness of any further evasion, he met the issue squarely.

"Well, since you crowd me to it," he cried, flaring up, "I _am_ too
good! I'm too good a man to drink when I don't want to drink--I'm too
good to accept treats when I don't stand treat! And more than that,"
he added slowly and impressively, "I'm too good to help blow that old
man, or any other man, for his money!"

He rose to his utmost height as he spoke, turning to meet the glance
of every man in the room, and as he faced them, panting, his deep eyes
glowed with a passion of conviction.

"If that is too good for this town," he said, "I'll get out of it, but
I won't drink on treats to please anybody."

The gaze of the entire assembly followed him curiously as he went back
to his corner, and Black Tex was so taken aback by this unexpected
effrontery on the part of his guest that he made no reply whatever.
Then, perceiving that his business methods had been questioned, he
drew himself up and frowned darkly.

"Hoity-toity!" he sniffed with exaggerated concern. "Who th' hell is
this, now? One of them little white-ribbon boys, fresh from the East,
I bet ye, travellin' for the W. P. S. Q. T. H'm-m--tech me not--oh
deah!" He hiked up his shoulders, twisted his head to a pose, and
shrilled his final sarcasms in the tones of a finicky old lady; but
the stranger stuck resolutely to his reading, whereupon the black
barkeeper went sullen and took a drink by himself.

Like many a good mixer, Mr. Brady of the Hotel Bender was often too
good a patron of his own bar, and at such times he developed a mean
streak, with symptoms of homicidal mania, which so far had kept the
town marshal guessing. Under these circumstances, and with the rumor
of a killing at Fort Worth to his credit, Black Tex was accustomed to
being humored in his moods, and it went h