“Caught you that time, you tin-horn,” he said quietly.

Instantly, almost before the speech was out, the giant in the apron had hurled himself across the room and gripped the cheat, who stood, a hand arrested on its way to his pocket, snarling helplessly.  But the other players, his fellow sheep-herders, fell away from Hilliard dangerously.

“No shootin’,” said the giant harshly.  “No shoot-in’ in The Aura.  It ain’t allowed.”

“No callin’ names either,” growled the prisoner.  “Me and my friends would like to settle with the youthful stranger.”

“Settle with him, then, but somewheres else.  No fightin’ in The Aura.”

There was an acquiescent murmur from the other table and the sheep-herder gave in.  He exchanged a look with his friends, and Carthy, seeing them disposed to return quietly to the game, left them and took up his usual position behind the bar.  The barmaid moved a little closer to his elbow.  Hilliard noticed that her eyes had widened in her pale face.  He made a brief, contemptuous excuse to his opponents, settled his account with them, and strolled over to the bar.  From Carthy he ordered another drink.  He saw the girl’s eyes studying the hand he put out for his glass and he smiled a little to himself.  When she looked up he was ready with his golden eyes to catch her glance.  Both pairs of eyes smiled.  She came a step toward him.

“I believe I’ve heard of you, miss,” he said.

A delicate pink stained her face and throat and he wondered if she could possibly be shy.

“Some fellows I met over in the Big Horn country lately told me to look you up if I came to Millings.  They said something about Hudson’s Queen.  It’s the Hudson Hotel isn’t it?—­”

A puzzled, rather worried look crept into her eyes, but she avoided his question.  “You were working in the Big Horn country?  I hoped you were from Hidden Creek.”

“I’m on my way there,” he said.  “I know that country well.  You come from over there?”

“No.”  She smiled faintly.  “But”—­and here her breast lifted on a deep, spasmodic sigh—­“some day I’m going there.”

“It’s not like any other country,” he said, turning his glass in his supple fingers.  “It’s wonderful.  But wild and lonesome.  You wouldn’t be caring for it—­not for longer than a sunny day or two, I reckon.”

He used the native phrases with sure familiarity, and yet in his speaking of them there was something unfamiliar.  Evidently she was puzzled by him, and Cosme was not sorry that he had so roused her curiosity.  He was very curious himself, so much so that he had forgotten the explosive moment of a few short minutes back.

The occupants of the second table pushed away their chairs and came over to the bar.  For a while the barmaid was busy, making their change, answering their jests, bidding them good-night.  It was, “Well, good-night, Miss Arundel, and thank you.”