The deputy sat scowling down at the desk, tap-tapping the curving black butt of the long-barreled Colt at his hip. He glanced up at Ware’s Kid with the odd, appraising stare he had given the small figure at first mention of his name. “My name’s Bos’ Johnson,” he remarked abruptly. “You-all make yo’se’f to home, here. I’ll be back, right soon.” He was gone fifteen or twenty minutes and when he came in again, his face wore that expression of grim rigidity which Ware’s Kid had marked upon him when first he had come into the office. “A’right,” he grunted. “Le’s git yo’ hawse to the stable. Then I’ll buy you-all a drink.” They saw to the stallion’s stabling, then crossed the street to a low, brick saloon. There were not many in it--a cowboy or two, a knot of farmers standing together far down the bar. But, drinking alone, was a huge man with sullen, red face and close-set black eyes. He turned at the pair’s entrance, staring. “Whisky,” said Bos’ Johnson, tonelessly. Ware’s Kid nodded agreement. * * * * * The big man watched, tugging at long mustaches and snorting loudly as if at his private thoughts. He watched belligerently while the bartender poured the drinks for Ware’s Kid and Bos’ Johnson. “Bartender!” he bellowed suddenly and crashed a huge fist upon the polished bar. “Yes, sir!” replied the bartender. His pasty face was gray-hued. “Yes, sir!” “You-all know who I am, bartender? I ask you-all--don’ you-all know what I am, huh?” “Yes, sir, Mr. Branch. Course I do. Everybody knows Bull Branch! So’ do!” Bull Branch continued to glare menacingly at him. “Bartender!” he growled. “Since when is Mexicans ’lowed to come a-shovin’ in yere a-drinkin’ with white men? You-all git down there an’ take that-’ere drink away from that Mex’! Then you-all chase him out’n here ’fore I git mad.” Slowly the bartender inched toward Ware’s Kid--who had not yet seemed even to glance in Bull Branch’s direction. When he was still six feet away, the Ranger turned his head a trifle--and regarded the bartender. The unhappy man stopped instantly, shrinking back before the uncanny electric sparkling in the gray-green eyes. Slowly, then, Ware’s Kid wheeled to face Bull Branch. “Where _I_ come from--” thus the Ranger in a soft drawl--“ever’ gent kills his own snakes.” “What?” roared Bull Branch, lowering big head on bull neck and glaring ferociously. “_Whut?_” “Pop yo’ whip, fella!” Ware’s Kid invited him, still in the bored drawl. Bull Branch gaped amazedly. Deliberately, he pushed back his coat flaps and put huge hands upon his hips. The pearl-gripped butts of two Colts showed, almost under his fingers. Then he bore slowly down upon the Ranger, who stood sideway to the bar with left elbow resting on its edge. Bos’ Johnson moved unobtrusively away from the bar and out of possible line of fire. But Bull Branch made no move to draw his guns: merely came on ponderously.