It was as gracefully done as if she had been welcoming a brother, but Nash, knowing Sally, understood perfectly that it was only a play to impress the eye of Bard.  Nevertheless he was forced to accept it in good part.

“My old pal, Steve Nash,” said Sally, “and this is Mr. Anthony Bard.”

Just the faintest accent fell on the “Mr.,” but it made Steve wince.  He rose and shook hands gravely with the tenderfoot.

“I stopped at Butler’s place down the street,” he said, “and been hearin’ a pile about a little play you made a while ago.  It was about time for somebody to call old Butch’s bluff.”

“Bluff?” cried Sally indignantly.

“Bluff?” queried Bard, with a slight raising of the eyebrows.

“Sure—­bluff.  Butch wasn’t any more dangerous than a cat with trimmed claws.  But I guess you seen that?”

He settled down easily in his chair just as Sally resumed her place opposite Bard.

“Steve,” she said, with a quiet venom, “that bluff of his has been as good as four-of-a-kind with you for a long time.  I never seen you make any play at Butch.”

He returned amiably:  “Like to sit here and have a nice social chat, Sally, but I got to be gettin’ back to the ranch, and in the meantime, I’m sure hungry.”

At the reminder of business a green light came in the fine blue eyes of Sally.  They were her only really fine features, for the nose tilted an engaging trifle, the mouth was a little too generous, the chin so strong that it gave, in moments of passivity, an air of sternness to her face.  That sternness was exaggerated as she rose, keeping her glare fixed upon Nash; a thing impossible for him to bear, so he lowered his eyes and engaged in rolling a cigarette.  She turned back toward Bard.

“Sorry I got to go—­before I finished eating—­but business is business.”

“And sometimes,” suggested Bard, “a bore.”

It was an excellent opening for a quarrel, but Nash was remembering religiously a certain thousand dollars, and also a gesture of William Drew when he seemed to be breaking an imaginary twig.  So he merely lighted his cigarette and seemed to have heard nothing.

“The whole town,” he remarked casually, “seems scared stiff by this Butch; but of course he ain’t comin’ back to-night.”

“I suppose,” said the tenderfoot, after a cold pause, “that he will not.”

But the coldness reacted like the most genial warmth upon Nash.  He had chosen a part detestable to him but necessary to his business.  He must be a “gabber” for the nonce, a free talker, a chatterer, who would cover up all pauses.

“Kind of strange to ride into a dark town like this,” he began, “but I could tell you a story about—­”

“Oh, Steve,” called the voice of Sally from the kitchen.

He rose and nodded to Bard.

“’Scuse me, I’ll be back in a minute.”

“Thanks,” answered the other, with a somewhat grim emphasis.