There were a number of men in the place when the pair entered; a quintet playing cards, and as many others scattered about a quiet pool-game. And one burly fellow was lying on a poker-table, curled up for all the world like a sleeping dog. Now and then one of the gamblers would lift his head to take a look at the new-comers, and for a brief instant young Breckenbridge would find himself gazing into a pair of hard, steady eyes. Then the eyes would be lowered and the player would go on with the game. It was during this uncomfortable interval of general sizing-up that the proprietor entered, a red-faced man and short of stature. He had been out to get a bucket of water; he set the pail down by the end of the bar and filled a tin cup from it. "Here's how, boys," he said with loud facetiousness, and lifted the cup. The burly man, who had apparently been awakened by the words, uncoiled himself, came to crouch with one arm supporting his body on the table-top and--all in the same lithe movement--drew his big-caliber revolver from the holster. "Don't drink that stuff. It's pizen," he shouted, and with the last word his weapon flamed. The tin cup flew from the saloon man's hand. A shout of laughter rose from the crowd at the two games; then the pool-balls clicked again and-- "Raise you ten," a poker-player said. Breckenbridge's guide beckoned to the man who had done the shooting. He came across the room, shoving his gun back into the holster, a rather thickly built man but well-knit and there was a soft spring in his slowest movements which suggested snake-like quickness. He was dark-eyed, and his hair was a mat of close black curls. The cattle-buyer nodded, to indicate the introduced one. "This," he said, "is Mr. Breckenbridge, one of Johnny Behan's deputies." And-- "This is Curly Bill." Young Breckenbridge smiled as usual and stretched forth his right hand. But the eyes of Curly Bill were narrow and his hand came out slowly. There was that in his whole manner which said he was on guard, watching every movement of the deputy. And for this there was good reason. It was not long since Curly Bill had stood in very much the same attitude on Tombstone's street facing Town Marshal White, the only difference being that his right hand on that occasion had been proffering his pistol, butt foremost, to the officer. And in the passing of the instant while Marshal White had touched the weapon with his fingertips the forty-five had swiftly reversed ends, to spit forth one leaden slug. The officer had dropped in the dust of the roadway and Curly Bill had ridden out of town with a thousand dollars on his head. A thousand dollars was a thousand dollars and there was no telling what a man who wore a nickel-plated star might have up his sleeve. "Mr. Breckenbridge," the cattle-buyer said as the two palms met, "is here on civil business." The eyes of Curly Bill resumed their normal shape. His fingers tightened over the deputy's.