He jabbed the bottle across the bar at Donnegan and spun a glass noisily at him, and the “floater” observed the angry bartender with a frightened side glance, and then poured his drink gingerly.  When the glass was half full he hesitated and sought the face of the bartender again, for permission to go on.

“Fill her up!” commanded the giant.  “Fill her up, lad, and drink hearty.”

“I never yet,” observed the bartender darkly, “seen a beggar that wasn’t a hog.”

At this Donnegan’s protector shifted his belt so that the holster came a little more forward on his thigh.

“Son,” he said, “how long you been in these parts?”

“Long enough,” declared the other, and lowered his black brows.  “Long enough to be sick of it.”

“Maybe, maybe,” returned the cowpuncher-miner, “meantime you tie to this.  We got queer ways out here.  When a gent drinks with us he’s our friend.  This lad here is my pardner, just now.  If I was him I would of knocked your head off before now for what you’ve said—­”

“I don’t want no trouble,” Donnegan said whiningly.

At this the bartender chuckled, and the miner showed his teeth in his disgust.

“Every gent has got his own way,” he said sourly.  “But while you drink with Hal Stern you drink with your chin up, bud.  And don’t forget it.  And them that tries to run over you got to run over me.”

Saying this, he laid his large left hand on the bar and leaned a little toward the bartender, but his right hand remained hanging loosely at his side.  It was near the holster, as Donnegan noticed.  And the bartender, having met the boring glance of the big man for a moment, turned surlily away.  The giant looked to Donnegan and observed:  “Know a good definition of the word, skunk?”

“Nope,” said Donnegan, brightening now that the stern eye, of the bartender was turned away.

“Here’s one that might do.  A skunk is a critter that bites when your back is turned and runs when you look it in the eye.  Here’s how!”

He drained his own glass, and Donnegan dexterously followed the example.

“And what might you be doing around these parts?” asked the big man, veiling his contempt under a mild geniality.

“Me?  Oh, nothing.”

“Looking for a job, eh?”

Donnegan shrugged.

“Work ain’t my line,” he confided.

“H’m-m-m,” said Hal Stern.  “Well, you don’t make no bones about it.”

“But just now,” continued Donnegan, “I thought maybe I’d pick up some sort of a job for a while.”  He looked ruefully at the palms of his hands which were as tender as the hands of a woman.  “Heard a fellow say that Jack Landis was a good sort to work for—­didn’t rush his men none.  They said I might find him here.”

The big man grunted.

“Too early for him.  He don’t circulate around much till the sun goes down.  Kind of hard on his skin, the sun, maybe.  So you’re going to work for him?”