Foy smiled and shook his head.

“I can’t do that—­and it would only make him madder than ever.  But I’ll get out of his way and keep out of his way.  I’ll go up to the Jornado to-night and stay with the Bar Cross boys awhile.  He won’t come up there.”

“You’ll enjoy having people tellin’ how you run away to keep from meeting Dick Marr?” said Applegate incredulously.

“Why shouldn’t they say it?  It will be exactly true,” responded Foy quietly, “and you’re authorized to say so.  I’m learning some sense now; I’m getting to own quite a mess of property; I’m going to be married soon; and I don’t want to fight anyone.  Besides, quite apart from my own interests, other men will be drawn into it if I shoot it out with Marr.  No knowing where it will stop.  No, sir; I’ll go punch cows till Marr quiets down.  Maybe it’s just the whisky talking.  Dick isn’t such a bad fellow when he’s not fighting booze.  Or maybe he’ll go away.  He hasn’t much to keep him here.”

“Say, I could get a job offered to him out in San Simon,” said Applegate, brightening.

His eye rested on the clock over the long mirror.  He stepped over to the show case, clipped the end from a cigar and obtained a light from a shapely bronze lady with a torch.  When he came back he fell in on Foy’s left; at Foy’s right Creagan leaned his elbows on the bar.

“Well, I’m obliged to you, boys,” said Foy.  “This one’s on me.  Come on, Joe—­have a hoot.”

“Thanks, no,” said Espalin.  “I not dreenkin’ none thees times.  Eef I dreenk some I get full, and loose my job maybe.”

“Vichy,” said Foy.  “Take something yourself, Max.”

As Mr. Max poured the drinks an odd experience befell Mr. Jose Espalin.  His tilted chair leaned against the casing of the billiard-room door.  As Max filled the first glass Espalin became suddenly aware of something round and hard and cold pressed against his right temple.  Mr. Espalin felt some curiosity, but he sat perfectly still.  The object shifted a few inches; Mr. Espalin perceived from the tail of his eye the large, unfeeling muzzle of a sixshooter; beyond it, a glimpse of the forgotten elderly stranger, Mr. Pringle.

Only Mr. Pringle’s fighting face appeared, and that but for a moment; he laid a finger to lip and crouched, hidden by the partition and by Espalin’s body.  Mr. Espalin gathered that Pringle desired no outcry and shunned observation; he sat motionless accordingly; he felt a hand at his belt, which removed his gun.

“Happy days!” said Foy, and raised his glass to his lips.

Creagan seized the uplifted wrist with both hands, Applegate pounced on the other arm.  Pringle leaped through the doorway.  But something happened swifter than Pringle’s swift rush.  Foy’s knee shot up to Applegate’s stomach.  Applegate fell, sprawling.  Foy hurled himself on Creagan and bore him crashing to the floor.  Foy whirled over; he rose on one hand and knee, gun drawn, visibly annoyed; also considerably astonished at the unexpected advent of Mr. Pringle.  Applegate lay groaning on the floor.  Pringle kicked his gun from the holster and set foot upon it; one of his own guns covered the bartender and the other kept watch on Espalin, silent on his still-tilted chair.