ay, he paused to pry into the matter.

"Say, partner," he began, his big mountain voice tamed down to a
masterful calm, "won't you come over and have something with us?"

There was a challenge in the words which did not escape the stranger;
he glanced up suddenly from his reading and a startled look came into
his eyes as he saw the long line of men watching him. They were large
clear eyes, almost piercing in their intentness, yet strangely
innocent and childlike. For a moment they rested upon the regal form
of the big cowboy, no less a man than Jefferson Creede, foreman of the
Dos S, and there was in them something of that silent awe and worship
which big men love to see, but when they encountered the black looks
of the multitude and the leering smile of Black Tex they lit up
suddenly with an answering glint of defiance.

"No, thank you," he said, nodding amiably to the cowman, "I don't
drink."

An incredulous murmur passed along the line, mingled with sarcastic
mutterings, but the cowman did not stir.

"Well, have a cigar, then," he suggested patiently; and the barkeeper,
eager to have it over, slapped one down on the bar and raised his
glass.

"Thank you just as much," returned the little man politely, "but I
don't smoke, either. I shall have to ask you to excuse me."

"Have a glass of milk, then," put in the barkeeper, going off into a
guffaw at the familiar jest, but the cowboy shut him up with a look.

"W'y, certainly," he said, nodding civilly to the stranger. "Come on,
fellers!" And with a flourish he raised his glass to his lips as if
tossing off the liquor at a gulp. Then with another downward flourish
he passed the whiskey into a convenient spittoon and drank his chaser
pensively, meanwhile shoving a double eagle across the bar. As Black
Tex rang it up and counted out the change Creede stuffed it into his
pocket, staring absently out the window at the downpour. Then with a
muttered word about his horse he strode out into the storm.

Deprived of their best spender, the crowd drifted back to the tables;
friendly games of coon-can sprang up; stud poker was resumed; and a
crew of railroad men, off duty, looked out at the sluicing waters and
idly wondered whether the track would go out--the usual thing in
Arizona. After the first delirium of joy at seeing it rain at all
there is an aftermath of misgiving, natural enough in a land where the
whole surface of the earth, mountain and desert, has been chopped