Right or wrong there was plainly no use continuing the argument, for Hamlin's fingers were upon the butt of his revolver, and his eyes hardened at the delay. The gambler's inclination was to oppose this summary dismissal, but a glance at his crowd convinced him he would have to play the hand alone, so he yielded reluctantly, swept the chips into the side pocket of his coat and departed, leaving behind a trail of profanity. The Sergeant smiled, but remained motionless until they disappeared. "The bluff works," he thought serenely, "unless they make a kick at the office; some peeved, Charlie was." He stepped over to the window, and held back the curtain. A burly figure occupied the bench, with feet upon the rail. Even in that outside dimness could be distinguished a black beard. The very man, and the Sergeant chuckled grimly with a swiftly born hope that the fellow might create a row. Nothing at that moment could have pleased him more. He blew out the parlor light, partially closed the door, and stepped forth on to the porch. "Say, you," he said gruffly, dropping one hand heavily on the other's shoulder. "Did you hear what I said to those fellows inside? Well, it goes out here the same. Pack up, and clear the deck." "Reb" dropped his feet to the floor and stood up, his bearded lips growling profanity, but Hamlin gripped his wrist, and the man stopped, with mouth still open, staring into the Sergeant's face. All bravado seemed to desert him instantly. "Who--who says so?" and he stepped back farther into the shadow. "I do, if you need to know," pleasantly enough. "Sergeant Hamlin, Seventh Cavalry." "Oh!" the exclamation came from between clenched teeth. "Hell, man, you startled me." "So I see; nervous disposition, I reckon. Well, are you going quietly, or shall I hoist you over the rail?" "I had an appointment here." "Can't help that, partner. This porch is going to be vacant inside of one minute, or there is a declaration of war. Your easiest way out is through that window, but you can go by rail if you prefer." The black beard wasted half his allowed time in an effort at bluster; then, to Hamlin's utter disgust, slunk through the open window and across the darkened parlor. "The pusillanimous cuss," the latter muttered, "he 's worse than a cur dog. Blamed if he was n't actually afraid of me. A gun-fighter--pugh!" He lifted his voice, as "Reb" paused in the light of the hall beyond and glanced back, a fist doubled and uplifted. "Oh, go on! Sure, you 'll get me? You are the brave boy, now," and Hamlin strode toward the door threateningly. "Lope along, son, and don't turn around again until you face the bar."