Billy stared at him while he drew a long breath; a breath which seemed to press back a tangible weight of hatred and utter contempt for the Pilgrim; a breath while it seemed that he must kill him there and stamp out the very semblance of humanity from his mocking face.

“Yuh don’t know of any quarrel between you and me?  Yuh say yuh don’t?” Billy’s voice trembled a little, because of the murder-lust that gripped him.  “Well, pretty soon, I’ll start in and tell yuh all about it—­maybe.  Right now, I’m going t’ give a new one—­one that yuh can easy name and do what yuh damn’ please about.”  Whereupon he did as he had done once before when the offender had been a sheepherder.  He stepped quickly to one side of the Pilgrim, emptied a glass down inside his collar, struck him sharply across his grinning mouth, and stepped back—­back until there were eight or ten feet between them.

“That’s the only way my whisky can go down your neck!” he said.

Men gasped and moved hastily out of range, never doubting what would happen next.  Billy himself knew—­or thought he knew—­and his hand was on his gun, ready to pull it and shoot; hungry—­waiting for an excuse to fire.

The Pilgrim had given a bellow that was no word at all, and whirled to come at Billy; met his eyes, wavered and hesitated, his gun in his hand and half-raised to fire.

Billy, bent on giving the Pilgrim a fair chance, waited another second; waited and saw fear creep into the bold eyes of the Pilgrim; waited and saw the inward cringing of the man.  It was like striking a dog and waiting for the spring at your throat promised by his snarling defiance, and then seeing the fire go from his eyes as he grovels, cringingly confessing you his master, himself a cur.

What had been hate in the eyes of Billy changed slowly to incredulous contempt.  “Ain’t that enough?” he cried disgustedly.  “My God, ain’t yuh man enough—­Have I got to take yuh by the ear and slit your gullet like they stick pigs—­or else let yuh go?  What are yuh, anyhow?  Shall I give my gun to the bar-keep and go out where it’s dark?  Will yuh be scared to tackle me then?” He laughed and watched the yellow terror creep over the face of the Pilgrim at the taunt.  “What’s wrong with your gun?  Ain’t it working good to-night?  Ain’t it loaded?

“Heavens and earth!  What else have I got to do before you’ll come alive?  You’ve been living on your rep as a bad man to monkey with, and pushing out your wishbone over it for quite a spell, now—­why don’t yuh get busy and collect another bunch uh admiration from these fellows? I ain’t no lightning-shot man!  Papa Death don’t roost on the end uh my six-gun—­or I never suspicioned before that he did; but from the save-me-quick look on yuh, I believe yuh’d faint plumb away if I let yuh take a look at the end uh my gun, with the butt-end toward yuh!