As he dismounted he heard the loungers speak of his horse, and he saw their leisurely manner quicken. He stepped into the store to meet more men, among them August Naab's friend Abe. Hare might never have been in White Sage for all the recognition he found, but he excited something keener than curiosity. He asked for spurs, a clasp-knife and some other necessaries, and he contrived, when momentarily out of sight behind a pile of boxes, to whisper his identity to Abe. The Mormon was dumbfounded. When he came out of his trance he showed his gladness, and at a question of Hare's he silently pointed toward the saloon. Hare faced the open door. The room had been enlarged; it was now on a level with the store floor, and was blue with smoke, foul with the fumes of rum, and noisy with the voices of dark, rugged men. A man in the middle of the room was dancing a jig. “Hello, who's this?” he said, straightening up. It might have been the stopping of the dance or the quick spark in Hare's eyes that suddenly quieted the room. Hare had once vowed to himself that he would never forget the scarred face; it belonged to the outlaw Chance. The sight of it flashed into the gulf of Hare's mind like a meteor into black night. A sudden madness raced through his veins. “Hello, Don't you know me?” he said, with a long step that brought him close to Chance. The outlaw stood irresolute. Was this an old friend or an enemy? His beady eyes scintillated and twitched as if they sought to look him over, yet dared not because it was only in the face that intention could be read. The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from some one. “Look how he packs his gun.” Another man answering whispered: “There's not six men in Utah who pack a gun thet way.” Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest fraction of a second. The brick color of his face turned a dirty white. “Do you know me?” demanded Hare. Chance's answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip. Hare's arm moved quicker, and Chance's Colt went spinning to the floor. “Too slow,” said Hare. Then he flung Chance backward and struck him blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall. Chance sank to the floor in a heap. Hare kicked the outlaw's gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd. Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his clear eyes shining like light on ice. “Do you know me?” asked Hare, curtly. Holderness started slightly. “I certainly don't,” he replied. “You slapped my face once.” Hare leaned close to the rancher. “Slap it now--you rustler!” In the slow, guarded instant when Hare's gaze held Holderness and the other men, a low murmuring ran through the room. “Dene's spy!” suddenly burst out Holderness. Hare slapped his face. Then he backed a few paces with his right arm held before him almost as high as his shoulder, the wrist rigid, the fingers quivering.