“Texas ain’t produced but few quitters,” said Hoog, in a loud voice, though apparently he was not addressing anybody. “But, when it does produce one, he’s all yellow.” Bertram did not change his expression nor his attitude. Hoog’s face reddened with sudden passion. As he stood at the bar, his long, saturnine countenance writhing with hate, more men slipped quietly out of the room, feeling that the storm could not be delayed many seconds longer. The gunman stood with one arm resting on the bar, though he had not touched the glass that had been shoved toward him by the despairing Laroque, who had already counted another mirror as good as smashed. “Push along another glass, Eddie,” went on Hoog. “I’m goin’ to have a drinkin’ companion. Come on over here, you big feller from Texas. You never would drink with me before, but you’ve got to to-day, because I’ve got a special toast fer you.” Bertram rose slowly and walked over to the bar, beside Hoog, as calmly as if he had been invited by his most intimate friend. The bartender shoved the bottle of bootleg toward him, and the Texan poured out a drink. The spectators noticed that his hand did not tremble. “Now pour me a good, stiff drink,” said Hoog, determined to goad Bertram into an attempt to draw. “I’m tired to-day, and I need a waiter to pour my liquor for me.” To the amazement of the onlookers, who had surged quietly away from; the bar to new positions out of the line of fire, Bertram did as directed. He filled Hoog’s glass almost to the brim. Even the gunman was surprised at the obedience to his insulting order. His left hand, which had been half opened at his side, for Hoog was an ambidextrous fighter, dropped away from the pistol butt that peered from the worn leather scabbard at the gunman’s hip. “Now let’s drink,” said Hoog, jubilant at having humiliated Bertram before the crowd. “Drink to the State you’ve disgraced--Texas.” Both men drank, Hoog raising his glass to his lips with his right hand and tossing off the liquid. As they set down their glasses, Hoog said: “If there’s any word that’ll make you fight, Bertram, tell me what it is, and I’ll say it.” But the Texan apparently did not hear. He had produced the little bottle of gray powder which the district attorney had given him. Evidently he had palmed the bottle before he had stepped to the bar, as he made no move toward his pocket to get it. With the little brush, which was inserted in the cork, he dusted some of the powder on the outside of Hoog’s whisky glass. The gunman, with every one else in the room, was watching with undisguised interest, as the Texan inspected the glass. “Goin’ to give us a little parlor magic?” asked Hoog. Bertram set down Hoog’s whisky glass, carefully refraining from touching it, where the gray powder showed on the outside. “Hoog,” he said softly, “that was a long, long time ago when you got bitten in the right thumb by a rattlesnake, wasn’t it?”