“I dunno,” he said at last, “they
look sort of queer to me.”
“For God’s sake cut this short, Dan,”
pleaded Tex Calder in an undertone. “Let
them have all the rope they want. Don’t
trip up our party before we get started.”
“Queer?” echoed Jacqueline, and there
was a deep murmur from the men.
“Sure,” said Dan, smiling upon her again,
“they all wear their guns so awful high.”
Out of the dead silence broke the roar of the sandy-haired
man: “What’n hell d’you mean
by that?”
Dan leaned forward on one elbow, his right hand free
and resting on the edge of the table, but still his
smile was almost a caress.
“Why,” he said, “maybe you c’n
explain it to me. Seems to me that all these
guns is wore so high they’s more for ornament
than use.”
“You damned pup—” began Sandy.
He stopped short and stared with a peculiar fascination
at Dan, who started to speak again. His voice
had changed—not greatly, for its pitch
was the same and the drawl was the same—but
there was a purr in it that made every man stiffen
in his chair and make sure that his right hand was
free. The ghost of his former smile was still
on his lips, but it was his eyes that seemed to fascinate
Sandy.
“Maybe I’m wrong, partner,” he was
saying, “an’ maybe you c’n prove
that your gun ain’t jest ornamental hardware?”
What followed was very strange. Sandy was a brave
man and everyone at that table knew it. They
waited for the inevitable to happen. They waited
for Sandy’s lightning move for his gun.
They waited for the flash and the crack of the revolver.
It did not come. There followed a still more
stunning wonder.
“You c’n see,” went on that caressing
voice of Dan, “that everyone is waitin’
for you to demonstrate—which the lady is
most special interested.”
And still Sandy did not move that significant right
hand. It remained fixed in air a few inches above
the table, the fingers stiffly spread. He moistened
his white lips. Then—most strange of
all!—his eyes shifted and wandered away
from the face of Whistling Dan. The others exchanged
incredulous glances. The impossible had happened—Sandy
had taken water! The sheriff was the first to
recover, though his forehead was shining with perspiration.
“What’s all this stuff about?” he
called. “Hey, Sandy, quit pickin’
trouble with the stranger!”
Sandy seized the loophole through which to escape
with his honour. He settled back in his chair.
“All right, gov’nor,” he said, “I
won’t go spoilin’ your furniture.
I won’t hurt him.”
ONE TRAIL ENDS
But this deceived no one. They had seen him palpably
take water. A moment of silence followed, while
Sandy stared whitefaced down at the table, avoiding
all eyes; but all the elements of good breeding exist
under all the roughness of the West. It was Jacqueline
who began with a joke which was rather old, but everyone
appreciated it—at that moment—and
the laughter lasted long enough to restore some of
the colour to Sandy’s face. A general rapid
fire of talk followed.
