“My little game,” continued Mr. Masterson calmly, “is this: I’ve passed my word that no harm shall come to these people. And for this reason. If they were even a little injured, the prohibition papers would make bloody murder of it. Inside of hours, the soldiers from the Fort would be among us, and the town under martial law. They would be sending you prairie dogs to bed at nine o’clock, with a provost marshal to tuck you in; and none of you would like that. I wouldn’t like it myself.” “Let the soldiers come!” shouted Bear Creek Johnson from the extreme wing of the mob. Bear Creek had drawn from the whiskey under his belt a more than normal courage. Moreover, he felt that it was incumbent upon him to make a stand. Considering those plans he had laid, and which included driving Mr. Masterson out of town should he have the impudence to stand in their way, Bear Creek knew that otherwise he would be disparaged in the estimation of his followers and suffer in his good repute. He resolved to put forward a bold face, and bully Mr. Masterson. “Let the soldiers come!” Bear Creek repeated. “We won’t ask Bat Masterson to give us any help.” “Is that you, Bear Creek?” observed Mr. Masterson, turning on that popular idol. Mr. Masterson stepped off the porch and walked down upon the grass. This brought Bear Creek clear of the herd. No one, in case Bear Creek became a target, would be in line of Mr. Masterson’s fire. Bear Creek noticed this as something sinister. “I reckon now,” continued Mr. Masterson, still edging in between Bear Creek and his reserves, “that in case of trouble, you would take command, and run the soldiers out.” Then, solemnly, while Mr. Wright from the porch scanned those to the rear of Mr. Masterson for an earliest hostile sign: “Bear Creek, you’ve been holding forth that you’re a heap bad, but I, for one, am unconvinced. I understand how you snuffed out the soldier at Fort Lyons; but I also understand how that soldier was dead drunk. I’ve likewise heard how you bumped off the party on the Cimarron; at the same time that party was plumb tender and not heeled. Wherefore, I decline to regard those incidents as tests. You must give Dodge a more conclusive proof of gameness before you can dictate terms to the camp. You’ve got your irons! What do you wear ’em for?” As though to point the question, Mr. Masterson’s six-shooter jumped from its belt, and exploded in the direction of Bear Creek. The big bullet tore the ground two inches from his right foot. With a screech of dismay, Bear Creek soared into the air. Even while Mr. Masterson was talking, Bear Creek Johnson’s fortitude had been sweating itself away. The catlike creeping in between him and his constituents had also served to unhinge him. Indeed he was in such frame that the sudden explosion of Mr. Masterson’s pistol exploded with it his hysteria. Bear Creek could do nothing but make the shameful screeching leap described.