"And at the moment that the old man fell down-stairs, with the bureau in his arms, the old woman was coming up with two scuttles of coal, and, of course----" The drummer's tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared in the open door. He cried-- "Scratchy Wilson's drunk, and has turned loose with both hands." The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses, and faded out of the rear entrance of the saloon. The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered-- "All right, old man. S'pose he has. Come and have a drink, anyhow." But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room, that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly morose. "Say," said he, mystified, "what is this?" His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them. "It means, my friend," he answered, as he came into the saloon, "that for the next two hours this town won't be a health resort." The bar-keeper went to the door, and locked and barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them. Immediately a solemn, chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer was looking from one to another. "But say," he cried, "what is this, anyhow? You don't mean there is going to be a gun-fight?" "Don't know whether there'll be a fight or not," answered one man grimly. "But there'll be some shootin'--some good shootin'." The young man who had warned them waved his hand. "Oh, there'll be a fight, fast enough, if any one wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. There's a fight just waiting." The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner, and a perception of personal danger. "What did you say his name was?" he asked. "Scratchy Wilson," they answered in chorus. "And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage round like this once a week or so? Can he break in that door?" "No, he can't break down that door," replied the bar-keeper. "He's tried it three times. But when he comes you'd better lay down on the floor, stranger. He's dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come through." Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye on the door. The time had not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but as a minor precaution he sidled near to the wall. "Will he kill anybody?" he said again. The men laughed low and scornfully at the question. "He's out to shoot, and he's out for trouble. Don't see any good in experimentin' with him." "But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?" A man responded--"Why, he and Jack Potter----" But, in chorus, the other men interrupted--"Jack Potter's in San Anton'." "Well, who is he? What's he got to do with it?" "Oh, he's the town-marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these tears." "Whow!" said the drummer, mopping his brow. "Nice job he's got."