The man holding the match looked up at the Cornishman’s shout. He did not understand the words but the meaning of the action that followed was plain; and when the miner, growling like a bear, started to rush at him, his hand dropped to his gun with the speed of a hawk. Fanny promptly stuck out his foot. Tregloan went down with Fanny on top of him but it takes more than one slight boy, whatever his strength, to hold down a wrestling Cornishman. The flurry that followed, even with the added weight of numbers, would have been funny but for the scowling face of the olive-skinned man who stood with ready gun until assured the struggle had gone against his opponent. Then he slipped gun in holster and felt for another match. "Take him away," he said, with a sneering smile, "he make me sick." "What did they do that for?" asked Tex of Mike. Neither had moved during the excitement. The rest were pushing and pulling Tregloan out of the saloon. "That’s Guinea Mike," was the explanation. "He ’d murder his mother if she crossed him. First fair chanst I mane to break his d—d back—an’ if ye tell him so he ’ll kill me on sight." "Interestin’ specimen," observed Tex. Guinea Mike found another match and calmly lit it. Those not engaged in soothing Bill were looking in at the door and windows. Dutch Fred, behind the bar, was swearing good American oaths regarding the unjustified waste of his kerosene. Tex stepped away from the bar. "Blow that out," he said, dispassionately. Guinea Mike looked up with a snarl. The two stares met and grappled. Guinea slowly raised the match to his lips and puffed it out, flipping it from him with a snap of one finger so that it fell almost at the feet of Tex. They watched each other steadily. A solitary snore from the Indian sounded like the rumble of overhead thunder. Slowly the hand of Guinea descended from before his lips and in unison with it descended the head of Fred until his eyes just cleared the top of the bar. Guinea’s hand rested in the sagging waist of his trousers, a second, two— The roar of the explosion was deafening. Guinea Mike’s right shoulder went into retirement and his gun dropped from his nerveless fingers. Screaming with rage he stooped to grasp it with his left hand and pitched forward at full length, both knee-caps shattered, at the mercy of this stranger who shot as if at a mark. The noise awakened Cheyenne Charley who opened his eyes and smiled foolishly at the distorted face which had so unexpectedly reached his level. "D—n drunk," he observed, and immediately went to sleep again. Tex walked over and kicked the gun across the floor. Irish Mike picked it up and handed it to Fred. "I could a’ killed you just as easy as I didn’t, Guinea," said Tex. "I don’t like you an’ yore ways. It’s just a notion. So don’t you stop. An’ don’t send any o’ yore friends. ’No Guineas need apply.’ That goes, if I has to Garibaldi yore whole d—n country."