They piled over one another to get to the bar, with coarse jests and oaths and laughter. None of them noted that the stranger did not appear so thirsty as he had claimed to be. In fact, though he went through the motions, he did not drink at all.
"My name's Jim Fletcher," said the tall man with the drooping, sandy mustache. He spoke laconically, nevertheless there was a tone that showed he expected to be known. Something went with that name. The stranger did not appear to be impressed.
"My name might be Blazes, but it ain't," he replied. "What do you call this burg?""Stranger, this heah me-tropoles bears the handle Ord. Is thet new to you?"He leaned back against the bar, and now his little yellow eyes, clear as crystal, flawless as a hawk's, fixed on the stranger.
Other men crowded close, forming a circle, curious, ready to be friendly or otherwise, according to how the tall interrogator marked the new-comer.
"Sure, Ord's a little strange to me. Off the railroad some, ain't it? Funny trails hereabouts.""How fur was you goin'?"
"I reckon I was goin' as far as I could," replied the stranger, with a hard laugh.
His reply had subtle reaction on that listening circle. Some of the men exchanged glances. Fletcher stroked his drooping mustache, seemed thoughtful, but lost something of that piercing scrutiny.
"Wal, Ord's the jumpin'-off place," he said, presently. "Sure you've heerd of the Big Bend country?""I sure have, an' was makin' tracks fer it," replied the stranger.
Fletcher turned toward a man in the outer edge of the group.
"Knell, come in heah."
This individual elbowed his way in and was seen to be scarcely more than a boy, almost pale beside those bronzed men, with a long, expressionless face, thin and sharp.
"Knell, this heah's--" Fletcher wheeled to the stranger.
"What'd you call yourself?"
"I'd hate to mention what I've been callin' myself lately."This sally fetched another laugh. The stranger appeared cool, careless, indifferent. Perhaps he knew, as the others present knew, that this show of Fletcher's, this pretense of introduction, was merely talk while he was looked over.
Knell stepped up, and it was easy to see, from the way Fletcher relinquished his part in the situation, that a man greater than he had appeared upon the scene.
"Any business here?" he queried, curtly. When he spoke his expressionless face was in strange contrast with the ring, the quality, the cruelty of his voice. This voice betrayed an absence of humor, of friendliness, of heart.
"Nope," replied the stranger.
"Know anybody hereabouts?"
"Nary one."
"Jest ridin' through?"
"Yep."
"Slopin' fer back country, eh?"
There came a pause. The stranger appeared to grow a little resentful and drew himself up disdainfully.
"Wal, considerin' you-all seem so damn friendly an' oncurious down here in this Big Bend country, I don't mind sayin' yes--Iam in on the dodge," he replied, with deliberate sarcasm.
"From west of Ord--out El Paso way, mebbe?"
"Sure."
"A-huh! Thet so?" Knell's words cut the air, stilled the room.
"You're from way down the river. Thet's what they say down there--'on the dodge.' . . . Stranger, you're a liar!"With swift clink of spur and thump of boot the crowd split, leaving Knell and the stranger in the center.
Wild breed of that ilk never made a mistake in judging a man's nerve. Knell had cut out with the trenchant call, and stood ready. The stranger suddenly lost his every semblance to the rough and easy character before manifest in him. He became bronze. That situation seemed familiar to him. His eyes held a singular piercing light that danced like a compass-needle.
"Sure I lied," he said; "so I ain't takin' offense at the way you called me. I'm lookin' to make friends, not enemies. You don't strike me as one of them four-flushes, achin' to kill somebody. But if you are--go ahead an' open the ball.... You see, I never throw a gun on them fellers till they go fer theirs."Knell coolly eyed his antagonist, his strange face not changing in the least. Yet somehow it was evident in his look that here was metal which rang differently from what he had expected.
Invited to start a fight or withdraw, as he chose, Knell proved himself big in the manner characteristic of only the genuine gunman.
"Stranger, I pass," he said, and, turning to the bar, he ordered liquor.
The tension relaxed, the silence broke, the men filled up the gap; the incident seemed closed. Jim Fletcher attached himself to the stranger, and now both respect and friendliness tempered his asperity.
"Wal, fer want of a better handle I'll call you Dodge," he said.
"Dodge's as good as any.... Gents, line up again--an' if you can't be friendly, be careful!"Such was Buck Duane's debut in the little outlaw hamlet of Ord.
