The next morning, when the exchange was empty, the post-trader turned from arranging cans of condensed milk upon an upper shelf to face the sergeant's revolver. He threw up his hands to the level of his ears as though expressing sharp unbelief, and waited in silence. The sergeant advanced until the gun rested on the counter, Its muzzle pointing at the pit of Cahill's stomach. “You or me has got to leave this post,” said the sergeant, “and I can't desert, so I guess it's up to you.” “What did you talk for?” asked Cahill. His attitude was still that of shocked disbelief, but his tone expressed a full acceptance of the situation and a desire to temporize. “At first I thought it might be that new 'cruity' in F Troop,” explained the sergeant “You came near making me kill the wrong man. What harm did I do you by saying you kept bar for McTurk? What's there in that to get hot about?” “You said I run with the Whyos.” “What the h--l do I care what you've done!” roared the sergeant. “I don't kmow nothing about you, but I don't mean you should shoot me in the back. I'm going to tell this to my bunky, an' if I get shot up, the Troop'll know who done it, and you'll hang for it. Now, what are you going to do?” Cahill did not tell what he would do; for, from the other store, the low voice of Mary Cahill called, “Father! Oh, father!” The two men dodged, and eyed each other guiltily. The sergeant gazed at the buffalo-robe portieres with wide-opened eyes. Cahill's hands dropped from the region of his ears, and fell flat upon the counter. When Miss Mary Cahill pushed aside the portieres Sergeant Clancey, of G Troop, was showing her father the mechanism of the new regulation-revolver. He apparently was having some difficulty with the cylinder, for his face was red. Her father was eying the gun with the critical approval of an expert. “Father,” said Miss Cahill petulantly, “why didn't you answer? Where is the blue stationery--the sort Major Ogden always buys? He's waiting.” The eyes of the post-trader did not wander from the gun before him. “Next to the blank books, Mame,” he said. “On the second shelf.” Miss Cahill flashed a dazzling smile at the big sergeant, and whispered, so that the officer in the room behind her might not overhear, “Is he trying to sell you Government property, dad? Don't you touch it. Sergeant, I'm surprised at you tempting my poor father.” She pulled the two buffalo-robes close around her neck so that her face only showed between them. It was a sweet, lovely face, with frank, boyish eyes. “When the major's gone, sergeant,” she whispered, “bring your gun around my side of the store and I'll buy it from you.” The sergeant nodded in violent assent, laughing noiselessly and slapping his knee in a perfect ecstasy of delight. The curtains dropped and the face disappeared. The sergeant fingered the gun and Cahill folded his arms defiantly. “Well?” he said. “Well?” asked the sergeant.