At this the wolf-dog began to trot down the street, turned the next corner, and drew up at the door of a rambling building above which hung a dirty, cracked sign:  “GILEAD SALOON” and underneath in smaller letters was painted the legend:  “Here’s where you get it!”

Black Bart strolled up to the swinging doors of the emporium and then turned to look back at his master; clearly he wished Dan to enter the place.  But the rider shook his head and would certainly have ridden on had not, at that moment, the rain which had hitherto fallen only in rattling bursts, now burst over the roofs of the town with a loud roaring as of wind through a forest.  It was possible that the shower might soon pass over, so Dan rode under the long shelter which stretched in front of the saloon, dismounted, and entered behind Black Bart.

It was occupied by a scattering of people, for the busy time of the day had not yet commenced and Pale Annie was merely idling behind the bar—­working at half-speed, as it were.  To this group Black Bart paid not the slightest heed but glided smoothly down the centre of the long room until he approached the tables at the end, where, in a corner, sat a squat, thick-chested man, and opposite him the most cadaverously lean fellow that Whistling Dan had ever seen.  Before these two Black Bart paused and then cast a glance over his shoulder towards the master; Whistling Dan frowned in wonder; he knew neither of the pair.

But Black Bart apparently did.  He slouched a pace closer, crouched, and bared his fangs with a tremendous snarl.  At this the lean man left his chair and sprang back to a distance.  Terror convulsed his face; but his eyes glittered with a fascinated interest and he glanced first at his companion and then at the great wolf-dog, as if he were making a comparison between them.  It was the broad shouldered man who first spoke.

“Partner,” he said in a thick voice, in which the articulation was almost lost, “maybe you better take your dog out before he gets hurt.  He don’t like me and I don’t like him none too much.”

“Bart!” called Dan Barry.

But Black Bart gave no heed.  There had been a slight flexing of his muscles as he crouched, and now he leaped—­a black bolt of fighting weight—­squarely in the face of the giant.  He was met and checked midway in his spring.  For the two long arms darted out, two great hands fastened in the throat of the beast, and Black Bart fell back upon the floor, with Mac Strann following, his grip never broken by the fall.

A scurry of many feet running towards the scene; a shouting of twenty voices around him; but all that Whistling Dan saw were the fangs of Bart as they gnashed fruitlessly at the wrists of Mac Strann, and then the great red tongue lolling out and the eyes bulging from their sockets—­all he heard was the snarling of the wolf and the peculiar whine of rage which came from the throat of the man-beast fighting the wolf.  Then he acted.  His hands darted between the thick forearms of Mac Strann—­his elbows jerked out and snapped the grip; next he dragged Black Bart away from the danger.