For a space that dragged into a half minute there was inaction while every man within sound of his voice gazed at the speaker; at first almost with fascination, then as the real meaning of the interruption came over them, with sensations as divergent as their various individual minds.  There was no need to tell them who looked at that towering, intruding figure that tragedy lurked in the air, that death on the slightest provocation, at the twitch of a trigger finger, dwelt in those big twin Colts lying menacingly across the folded arms.  A lunatic escaped was a pleasant companion, a child, to deal with, compared with Pete Sweeney at this time.  Malevolent, irresponsible, dare god—­bull mastery fairly oozed from his presence.  Bad every inch of him, hopelessly, irredeemably bad was this mountain of humanity.  Bad from the soles of his misshapen boots to the baggy chaperajos, to the bulging holsters at his hips, to the gleaming cartridge belt around his waist, to the soft green flannel shirt, to the red silk handkerchief about his throat, to the dark unshaven face, to the drink-reddened nose, to the mere slits of eyes, to the upturned sombrero that crowned the shock of wiry hair; bad in detail, in ensemble, was this inebriate cowman, bad.

“Well, why don’t you talk?” Himself interrupting the silence he came a step nearer, braced himself with legs far apart.  “What’ve you got to say for yourselves?  This ain’t no Quaker meeting.  Speak up.  What’re you all doin’ here?”

Among the crowd one man alone spoke, and that was lobster-red Bud Smith.

“Tendin’ to our own business, I reckon, Pete,” he explained evenly.

“You lie!” Narrower and narrower closed the slit-like eyes.  “You lie by the clock.  You were planning to fix me, you nest of skunks.”  From man to man he passed the look, halted at last at the figure of the lanky Missourian.  “Some feller here figgered to pot me, and I’m lookin’ to see the colour of his hair.  Who was it, I’d like to know?”

“Someone’s been stuffin’ you, Pete.”  Even, deliberate as before Smith spoke the lie.  “We don’t give a whoop what you do.  You can own the whole county so far as we care.  Go back and ‘tend to your knittin’.  Dad here wants to close up, now.”

“He does, does he?  Well, he can in just a minute, just as soon as you name the feller I mention.”  Of a sudden his eyes shifted, dropped like claws on the figure of the little land man.  “You know who it is I’m lookin’ for.  Tell me his name.”

“You don’t know me very well, Pete.”

“I don’t, eh?  You think I don’t know you?” The speaker was inspecting the other as a house cat inspects the mouse within its paws.  “In other words, you mean you know, but won’t tell me.”  Lingeringly, baitingly, almost exultingly, he was dragging the denouement on and on.  “That’s what you mean to imply, is it?”

“You’ve guessed it, Pete.”  Not a muscle in the small man’s body twitched; there was not the slightest alteration of the even tone.  There, facing death as surely as harvest follows seedtime, knowing as he knew that but one man present could interfere to prevent, that that man wouldn’t, he spoke those four words:  “You’ve guessed it, Pete.”  And but minutes before Manning had called this man coward!