As the bills came from the Ramblin’ Kid’s pocket the silver butterfly clasp of the garter caught in the paper currency and the elastic band was drawn out and dropped, at the side of his chair, on the floor next to Sabota.

The Greek and Skinny saw, at the same time, the dainty satin ribbon.

Sabota stepped quickly forward and with the toe of his shoe kicked the garter toward the bar, where all could see it.

“Look what th’ Ramblin’ Kid’s been carrying!” he exclaimed with a coarse laugh.  “Some size garter, that!” And guessing at random that it had belonged to Carolyn June, he added:  “Old Heck’s niece must be—­damned convenient and accommodating!”

A laugh started from the lips of the crowd.  It was instantly checked and a dead silence followed as the Ramblin’ Kid looked around, saw Sabota leering down at the trinket and heard his vulgar insinuation.  He slowly pushed his chair back from the table and with eyes half-closed—­the lids tightening until there were but narrow slits through which the black pupils burned like drops of jet—­he began slowly to straighten up.  Not a sound came from his lips save the deep, regular breathing those sitting near could hear and which was like a bellows fanning embers into a white heat.  His mouth was drawn back in a smile, almost caressing in its softness, but a thousand times more menacing than the black scowl on the face of the Greek.

The Ramblin’ Kid’s gun was at his hip, but he made no move to draw it.

Sabota watched the slender young cowboy.  A look of contempt and derision was in his eyes.  The Greek was no taller, but full eighty pounds heavier than the other.  But he forgot that the other’s lithe body moving with the calm, undulating grace of a panther preparing to spring was all clean youth, muscle and courage, unbroken by any debauchery!

“That’s a hell of a thing for a man to pack,” the giant bully cried nastily, “and it’s a hell of a lady that gives it to a man to pack!”

With a sneering laugh he raised his foot and brought it down on the garter, grinding the silver clasp and the satin ribbon under the sole of his shoe.

“You damned black cur!” The Rambling’ Kid spoke scarcely louder than a whisper, yet his voice echoed throughout the tense silence of the room. “I’ll put my heel in your face for that!”

Sabota threw back his head to laugh.

For a second of time the Ramblin’ Kid crouched, then shot through the air like a wire spring drawn far back and suddenly released, and with an his hundred and forty pounds of nerve and sinew behind it his right fist smashed the big Greek squarely on the half-open mouth, splitting the thick lip wide and causing a red stream to spurt from the gash.  Sabota staggered back and, would have fallen had he not crashed against the hardwood bar.

As the Greek reeled away from the garter the Ramblin’ Kid stooped quickly forward, picked up the elastic and dropped it again into his pocket.