“Them lamps of yourn was turned up too high, wasn’t they?” he asked.

The cowboy nodded, thoughtfully:  “Yes, that’s it.  They was turned up too high—­a damn sight too high for me, I reckon.”

“Git bucked off?”

The blackened eyes narrowed ever so slightly:  “No.  A guard done that.”

“A guard?”

“Yes, a guard.”  The Texan poured out his fifth drink.  “In the pen, it was.”

“In the pen!” The bartender was itching with curiosity.  “You don’t look like a jail-bird.  They musta got the wrong guy?” he suggested.

“No.  I killed him, all right.  I shot his ears off first, an’ then plugged him between the eyes before he could draw.  It was fun.  I can shoot straight as hell—­an’ quick!  See that mouse over by the wall?” Before the words were out of his mouth his Colt roared.  The bartender stared wide-eyed at the ragged bit of fur and blood that was plastered against the base-board where a moment before a small mouse had been nibbling a bit of cheese.  The men at the card table paused, looked up, and resumed their game.

“Man, that’s shootin’!” he exclaimed.  “Have one on me!  This geezer that you bumped off—­self defence, I s’pose?”

“No.  He was a bar-keep over on the Marias.  He made the mistake of takin’ ondue notice of a pair of black eyes I’d got—­somehow they looked mirthful to him, an’—­” The Texan paused and gazed reproachfully toward a flick of a white apron as the loquacious one disappeared through the back door.

A loud shouting and a rattling of wheels sounded from without.  The card game broke up, and the players slouched out the door.  Through the window the Texan watched the stage pull up at the hotel, watched the express box swung off, and the barn-dogs change the horses; saw the exchange of pouches at the post office; saw the stage pull out slowly and stop before a little white cottage next door to the steepleless church.  Then he reached for the bottle, poured another drink, and drank it very slowly.  Through the open door came the far-away rattle of wheels.  He tossed some money onto the bar, walked to the door, and stood gazing down the trail toward the cloud of grey dust that grew dimmer and dimmer in the distance.  At last, it disappeared altogether, and only the trail remained, winding like a great grey serpent toward the distant black buttes of the Judith Range.  He started to re-enter the saloon, paused with his foot on the threshold and stared down the empty trail, then facing abruptly about he swung into the saddle, turned his horse’s head northward, and rode slowly out of town.  At the little creek he paused and stared into the piney woods.  A tiny white flower lay, where it had been dropped in the trail, at the feet of his horse, and he swung low and recovered it.  For a long time he sat holding the little blossom in his hand.  Gently he drew it across his cheek.  He remembered—­and the memory hurt—­that the last time he had reached from the saddle had been to snatch her handkerchief from the ground, and he had been just the fraction of a second too late.