His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.

“It means, my friend,” he answered, as he came into the saloon, “that for the next two hours this town won’t be a health resort.”

The barkeeper went to the door and locked and barred it. Reaching out of the window, he pulled in heavy wooden shutters and barred them. Immediately a solemn chapel-like gloom was upon the place. The drummer was looking from one to another.

“But say,” he cried, “what is this, anyhow? You don’t mean there is going to be a gunfight?”

“Don’t know whether there’ll be a fight or not,” answered one man, grimly. “But there’ll be some shootin’—some good shootin’.”

The young man who had warned them waved his hand. “Oh, there’ll be a fight fast enough, if any one wants it. Anybody can get a fight out there in the street. There’s a fight just waiting.”

The drummer seemed to be swayed between the interest of a foreigner and a perception of personal danger.

“What did you say his name was?” he asked.

“Scratchy Wilson,” they answered in chorus.

“And will he kill anybody? What are you going to do? Does this happen often? Does he rampage around like this once a week or so? Can he break in that door?”

“No; he can’t break down that door,” replied the barkeeper. “He’s tried it three times. But when he comes you’d better lay down on the floor, stranger. He’s dead sure to shoot at it, and a bullet may come through.”

Thereafter the drummer kept a strict eye upon the door. The time had not yet been called for him to hug the floor, but, as a minor precaution, he sidled near to the wall. “Will he kill anybody?” he said again.

The men laughed low and scronfully at the question.

“He’s out to shoot, and he’s out for trouble. Don’t see any good in experimentin’ with him.”

“But what do you do in a case like this? What do you do?”

A man responded: “Why, he and Jack Potter—”

“But,” in chorus the other men interrupted, “Jack Potter’s in San Anton’.”

“Well, who is he? What’s he got to do with it?”

“Oh, he’s the town marshal. He goes out and fights Scratchy when he gets on one of these tears.”

“Wow!” said the drummer, mopping his brow. “Nice job he’s got.”

The voices had toned away to mere whisperings. The drummer wished to ask further questions, which were born of an increasing anxiety and bewilderment; but when he attempted them, the men merely looked at him in irritation and motioned him to remain silent. A tense waiting hush was upon them. In the deep shadows of the room their eyes shone as they listened for sounds from the street. One man made three gestures at the barkeeper; and the latter, moving like a ghost, handed him a glass and a bottle. The man poured a full glass of whiskey, and set down the bottle noiselessly. He gulped the whiskey in a swallow, and turned again toward the door in immovable silence. The drummer saw that the barkeeper,