It was the sport of children, as indeed these men were to a great extent—crude, rough, but with a sweetness not to be denied and a decency that it might seem strange to find in such a place. So far their fun might go, but they knew where to stop, and Faith Doolittle’s gentle face was its own protection. They watched Hiram nervously leading his wife along the platform down the line. Then they turned back to the saloon and amused themselves by giving imitations of the quaint visitors, until the place rang with their boisterous merriment. Suddenly there was a rattle of spurs and a noise from without as a tall cow-puncher lurched through the door. In a moment there was silence. Every one knew the man. "Hello, here’s Cash now," observed Shorty. The innocent gayety was forgotten. A different expression began to appear on the men’s faces. In Jim’s crowd it was one of sullen rebellion and suppressed indignation, in the other an expectant desire for real mischief. With Cash Hawkins’s entrance that afternoon, history was made in Maverick. *CHAPTER XV* Cash Hawkins leaned against the bar and maliciously took in the silence that followed his entrance into the saloon. He knew he was feared; he had made more than one man there feel his power. Malignity was marked in his demeanor and in the physiognomy of his face. He was lithe and straight, with wiry, steel-like muscles. He had a small head with a shock of tawny hair that he wore much longer than is usual with ranchmen. The rawhide strap of his hat hung under his chin, and his face, with its long, pointed wolf jaw, suggested that animal in its expression of ferocious keenness. When he grew excited his mouth moved convulsively, like an ugly trap ready to devour its prey. His hands were curiously beautiful—long and slender, with almond-shaped nails. The care he bestowed on them to keep their beauty in the midst of his rough life, the gorgeousness of his leather chaps with their mounting of silver, and the embroidery on his waistcoat betrayed his salient weakness—inordinate vanity. He was handsome in a cruel, hard fashion. Of his power as an athlete there was no question. In the saloon many could testify to the devilish cunning of those supple hands. "Got a bottle of ink handy, Nick?" he said, when he had insolently surveyed the assemblage, who, after a pause, were beginning to talk and settle down to new games. Nick, who wished to be friendly with all who patronized him, answered: "Ink? Ink is a powerful depressing drink, Cash." "Drink!" Cash’s face grew livid with rage. "You see here, Nick, don’t you joke with me; I ain’t in the humor for it. People has to know me intimate to joke with me—savvy? You get me a pen and a bottle of ink P.D.Q. I’m buying some cattle of Tabywana, the Ute chief—savvy? And he’s got to put his mark to the contract."