“You can’t say her name in no saloon!” shrilled the boy. “That’s no way to treat us folks from Texas. If there’s any of you-all looking for trouble you can git it right here!” “That’s what you can!” cried Len Hersey, touching elbows. The men of Del Sol edged close together. “Take a drink, Sinker—we’ll owe it to this house if you haven’t got no money.” The boy reached out his hand, thin, freckled, unwavering, toward the bottle which stood near. It was his first drink at a bar. Well, he had to begin. “You hear me!” again called out Len Hersey. “This kid gits his drink free right now. We bar any talk against our boss.” But a tall figure pushed through the crowd directly up to Hersey. “Look here, my friend,” said Wild Bill Hickok, “I know who you are and it’s all right, but you’re making too much noise. Just keep quiet now. Son, you don’t get any drink—it wouldn’t do you any good.” He reached out and took the glass which Cinquo Centavos had filled for himself. Whether or not even Wild Bill could have done so much as this without trouble happily did not come into question. McMasters, Nabours, now appeared at his side. “Shut your mouth, Len,” said Nabours. “Somebody’s liable to fill you full of holes. You know mighty well we’ve got to trail the bulk of the herd to-morrow over to the Smoky Hill and Junction City. Take a drink or so, and then keep your hand off the liquor till you get done your work.” No one seemed to pay any attention to the prone figure of the barkeeper, who lay on the floor beyond the bar. A sort of hush in the maudlin manifestations came upon the closely packed assemblage at the sight of the unmistakable figure of Wild Bill, whose reputation was known over all the borderlands. It was in this hush, at this dead center, that there came a sudden flash and roar from the back of the crowded hall. Dan McMasters, turning to look over the bar at the fallen man, felt a sudden flick at the collar of his coat. A bottle on the shelf beyond crashed to bits. A lamp toward the rear of the hall went out under the concussion. McMasters wheeled, both weapons in hand, looking out over the surging mass of men and women. He was just a second later than the future marshal of Abilene, who had not turned. The tall figure of Hickok straightened like a flash to his full height. His arm rose high, pointing a red line of flame. At the rear of the room a man dropped. He had been shot squarely through the forehead, the bullet passing just above the heads of the others. What happened then no man knew. There was a mad rush towards the door. Women screamed and sought to escape by the windows. A score of guns were drawn. No man knew where stood his enemy. Midway of the mad rush in the rear of the room three men came crouching, crowding, each with a gun in his hand. They endeavored to keep together; and thus, being recognized as a source of danger, certain of the crowd pushed away from them, left them more readily visible.