It has been explained that although from Boston Mr. Dixon had fallen from those heights of strictest English to which he had been lifted by education into the slipshod accent of the Brazos. The long speech of Mr. Dixon’s, however, was not thrown away; without a word, and reeling a bit in the saddle with the blur that still hung like a cloud across his faculties, Sergeant King rode off to the west. As he disappeared where the trail led over a low hill Mr. Dixon nodded a foreboding head. “Bat ought to have downed him,” observed Mr. Dixon to those several members of the body politic assembled to witness the exodus of Sergeant King; “Bat ought to have downed him. However, he’s makin’ for Tascosa, an’ if he’ll only open his system on that outfit, you can bet Bob Pierce or Jim East’ll bump him off.” “That’s whatever!” assented one of Mr. Dixon’s hearers. The incident was over, and with frank accord, one and all, they returned to the Lady Gay, and by second drink-time in the evening—to employ a Panhandle method of marking the flight of time—the affair, as being dull and commonplace in its finale, was quite forgot. Had Mr. Masterson emptied his Colt’s-45 into the head or the heart of Sergeant King the public would have talked of it for a day. It was nine of the moonless night and Mobeetie’s citizens for the greater part were gathered in store or bar or what other emporium best attracted their favour. There were no street lamps and the streets were almost deserted, since no one cared at risk of shin to blunder and stumble in the dark. One figure there was, however, which, avoiding the glare from front windows, stood watching in the shadows of the Lady Gay. The Lady Gay occupied the corner of two streets, and the lurking one was leaning against the side of that temple of chance. Within stretch of his hand was a small door, meant to supplement the front doors in event of a crowd. Now the situation had its peculiar, not to say suspicious, side. Had you entered the Lady Gay you might have seen that Mr. Masterson, with two or three about him, was sitting within touch of that small door. Had you returned to the lurking one without, and struck a match, you would have identified him as Sergeant King. From where he stood, with ear pressed close to the thin board wall of the Lady Gay, he could hear the voice of Mr. Masterson. It was by ear he had located him. Sergeant King had returned for that revenge now twice his due. He lacked the chilled-steel courage to invade the Lady Gay; to shoot through the pasteboard side of the structure, and try to kill by ear, was nothing sure; the best that Sergeant King might do was wait and watch. Mayhap in the chapter of accidents it had been written that Mr. Masterson would open the little door and furnish him the opportunity for which his black soul panted.