It was several moments before any one recognized the youngster, who was looking them over with his wide brown eyes. It was Mose LaClede, the big trapper, who made the discovery, and his voice boomed loudly above the roar of the conversation: “By ——! De los’ boy! Look! I’m be a —— liar, if it ain’t de leetle boy ’imself.” The roar of conversation broke abruptly. It was not a slowing down, but a sudden silence. Even the whirr of the roulette and the rattle of poker-chips was stilled, as the crowd stared at the little overall-clad, dirty-faced youngster on the bar, who was looking at them. There was a cleared space of several yards between Brick and the crowd. Silent had halted nearer the door. Brick could see Santel in the crowd. Hank Stagg was at the bar, just beyond Brick, staring wide-eyed at the youngster. And before any one could voice a question Leach came striding in past Silent, but stopped quickly, wondering at the silence. He turned his eyes and saw little Whizzer. Meecham, well-dressed, came in, glanced quickly at the crowd and stopped almost against Silent. “Well, I’ll be ——ed if it ain’t the kid!” exclaimed Bill Grant. “Where did yuh find him, Brick?” But Brick did not reply. He was watching Whizzer. “Baldy Malloy’s kid, eh?” Leach’s voice sounded as if he were suffering from a cold. A man laughed, and Brick glanced in that direction to see Ike Welden standing up in a chair against the wall. Ike was partly drunk. Brick’s sweeping glance included Santel, who was leaning forward, his face tense, shoulders hunched. “Take her easy, Brick.” It was Harp speaking from the far end of the bar. He knew that trouble was coming. A man began crying. It was Hank Stagg. Perhaps it was from the effect of liquor—perhaps not. Meecham started to back away, but Silent blocked him. Leach forced a smile and moved slightly closer. Whizzer was staring at Leach and now he grasped Brick’s shoulder. “Don’t let him touch me!” The childish treble sounded loud in the silence of the room. Leach stopped. “Why not, Whizzer?” Brick’s lips barely moved and he did not turn his head. “Are yuh afraid of him, buddy?” “He’s got warts on his hands! And there’s the frog on his holster!” “Warts? Frog?” Brick’s eyes shifted to Leach’s hands, which were turned away, as if Leach were trying to conceal them. But he could not conceal the holster, on which was the leaping-frog design in silver. Perhaps it was the symbol of a swift draw. Leach’s face had gone white, his jaw tensed. Hank Stagg’s sobs were the only audible noise, except the heavy breathing of the crowd. “Tell us about it, buddy,” said Brick softly. “He ain’t goin’ to hurt yuh.” “He’s got warts on his hands,” repeated the little fellow. “The man had ’em—the man who wore the cloth over his face—and he had the frog on his holster. Frogs make warts, don’tcha know it? I don’t like warts—and he’s got ’em.”