“You’d never recognize me if you was to see me again, now would you?” he asked the proprietor. “You couldn’t accurately describe me right now; and for all you can remember that bay horse of mine is a sorrel.” He shoved two gold coins across the bar and fixed the other man with his black eyes. The saloon man pocketed the money. “Correct on all counts,” he agreed. The stranger returned to his table and the bartender, under pretense of arranging glassware and bottles, placed a long-barreled forty-five on a shelf just under the bar. One never could tell. He had been old-time rider of the unowned lands and could rightly read his signs. A few stray customers dropped in and departed. The liveryman lingered over two glasses of beer. The banker stepped in for his afternoon nip the moment the bank was closed for the day, and the keeper of the general store came in with the proprietor of the lumber yard. Three neighboring farmers entered together and shook the dice to determine who should pay for the round. The stranger surveyed each new arrival, peering from beneath the brim of his hat while apparently absorbed in his game. Each time the man behind the bar shook his head. When the last of these patrons had departed Carver came in alone. “A pint bottle of your best beer for me, Jimmy,” he greeted. “An’ another one for you.” As Carver crossed to the bar the proprietor noted that he was not wearing his gun. He had discarded the weapon the day of his return from Oval Springs the preceding fall and had never worn it since. The bartender gazed fixedly at the man at the table, then slowly shook his head again, a signal which Carver could not fail to observe. Carver accorded the stranger one casual glance. He could see the rump of the horse that stood outside the open rear door. Jimmy spoke to the stranger. “That fellow Carver you was wanting to see just rode up the street,” he said. “He’ll likely be in any time now.” The man at the table nodded, frowning slightly at this reference before a third party. Carver turned, apparently noting his presence for the first time. “Step up,” he invited. “I’ve only time for one; have to be dangling along toward home; but you can linger over yours. Name it.” The stranger was anxious to be rid of him before the man he expected came in, so he moved to the bar in order to hasten proceedings. Jimmy set his drink before him. The man nodded his thanks and remained silent, not desiring to open a conversation lest it should cause his host to alter his decision to depart at once. Jimmy was slouching against the rear of the bar directly across from him, one hand resting on the shelf beneath it as if to support his weight. Carver picked up the pint of beer as if to drink from the bottle; then, as the stranger reached for his drink, Carver swung the heavy bottle by the neck. The man went down as the weapon struck him behind the ear.