"But he done told some fellers he'd get me inside forty-eight hours." "I reckon you'd better keep out of his way, then, Jeff." "But look here, Johnson--oh, pshaw, let's talk sense. He's made threats, I tell you. I done got a permit from the justice of the peace to pack a gun. Turner, he give it to me for my own protection." "Well?" "Well? WELL? What're you going to do about it? That's what I want to know. You're sheriff, ain't you?" My friend lighted a cigarette from the stub of another. Afterwards he studied the nails of his fingers with elaborate interest. A protracted pause, and he addressed a casual remark to me as though Thomas were not present. "Cut that, Johnson. I'm a-talking to you. What're you going to do about it?" On this, the sheriff whirled sharply in his chair. He clipped his words, so that each seemed to snap. "I'll show you what I'll do. You two yellow pups start something, and I'll show you what I'll do." Daniel Boone folded his cards and stole softly out of the room. I looked furtively for a sheltering nook. Only the shiny top of the bartender's bald head was now visible above a beer keg. But either Thomas did not want a row, or he could not afford one. "Well," he said finally, with an uncertain laugh, "that's different again, ain't it? There's no use getting all swelled up about this thing, Lafe. Let's have a snort." When the ceremony had been fitly observed, Thomas seated himself at the third table in the saloon, in no very good humor, and removed his hat. Shortly Daniel Boone returned, padding in like a wary cat, and resumed his interrupted studies of faro and its uses. We settled once more to our talk and piled the dominoes in unreckoned combinations. The main door opens directly from the saloon on to the street. At the far end of the bar is another door, which leads into a dining-room that is run as an annex to the Fashion. Jeff occupied the table nearest the bar, sitting sideways to it so as to face the entrance. Back of him was a doorless exit, which gave on to a dark passage. This led somewhere into the outer back-regions and was in frequent demand when a patron found himself overcome by the fumes of rejoicing and desired air, without publicity. In the corner remote from the street Mr. Boone was established, his legs embracing the legs of a chair, and he placidly dealt cards to an imaginary player. The sheriff and I were in the left foreground, close enough to the window to see through it, had a curtain not been discreetly drawn to the height of a grown man's head.