"Hold on there!" cried Peg Leg Reynolds, when it was just too late. Chris was out of it, and Shockley turned alone. "All right, partner; what is it?" he asked amiably. "You've got a ripping nerve." "I know it." "What's your name?" "Shockley." "Can you dance?" "No." It was Peg Leg's opportunity. He drew his gun. "I reckon maybe you can. Try it," he added, pointing the suggestion with the pistol. Shockley looked foolish; he didn't begin tripping soon enough, and a bullet from the cowboy's gun splintered the baseboard at his feet. Shockley attempted to shuffle. To any one who didn't know him it looked funny. But Peg Leg was a rough dancing master, and before he said enough an ordinary man would have dropped exhausted. Shockley, breathing a good bit quicker, only steadied himself against the bar. "Take off your hat before gentlemen," cried the cowboy. Shockley hesitated, but he did pull off his cap. "That's more like it. What's your name?" "Shockley." "Shockley?" echoed Reynolds with a burst of range amenities. "Well, Shockley, you can't help your name. Drink for once in your life with a man of breeding--my name's Reynolds. Pat, set out the good bottle--this guy pays," exclaimed Peg Leg, wheeling to the bar. "What'll it be?" asked Pat Barlie of Shockley, as he deftly slid a row of glasses in front of the men of breeding. "Ginger ale for me," suggested Shockley mildly. The cowboys put up a single yell. Ginger ale! It was too funny. Reynolds, choking with contempt, pointed to the yard master's glass. "Fill it with whiskey," he shouted. "Fill it, Pat!" he repeated, as Shockley leaned undecidedly against the bar. The yard master held out the glass, and the bar keeper began to pour. Shockley looked at the liquor a moment; then he looked at Reynolds, who fronted him gun in one hand and red water in the other. "Drink!" Shockley paused, looked again at the whiskey and drew the glass towards him with the curving hand of a drinker. "You want me to drink this?" he half laughed, turning on his baiter. "I didn't say so, did I? I said DRINK!" roared Peg Leg. Everybody looked at Shockley. He stood fingering the glass quietly. Somehow everybody, drunk or sober, looked at Shockley. He glanced around at the crowd; other guns were creeping from their holsters. He pushed the glass back, smiling. "I don't drink whiskey, partner," said Shockley gently. "You'll drink that whiskey, or I'll put a little hole into you!" Shockley reached good-naturedly for the glass, threw the liquor on the floor, and set it back on the bar. "Go on!" said Shockley. It confused Reynolds. "A man that'll waste good whiskey oughtn't t' live, anyhow," he muttered, fingering his revolver nervously. "You've spoiled my aim. Throw up your hat," he yelled. "I'll put a hole through that to begin with." Instead, Shockley put his cap back on his head. "Put a hole through it there," said he. Reynolds set down his glass, and Shockley waited; it was the cowboy who hesitated.