Long moments passed before he moved a muscle, but then he heard, far away, thin, and clear, whistling from behind the hotel.  It was no recognisable tune.  It was rather a strange improvisation, with singable fragments here and there, and then wild, free runs and trills.  It was as if some bird of exquisite singing powers should be taken in a rapture of song, so that it whistled snatches here and there of its usual melody, but all between were great, whole-throated rhapsodies.  As the sound of this whistling came to him, Buck raised his head suddenly.  And finally, still listening, he rose to his feet and turned into the dining-room.

There he found the waitress he had met before, and he asked her for the name of the doctor who took care of the wounded Jerry Strann.

“There ain’t no doc,” said the waitress.  “It’s Fatty Matthews, the deputy marshal, who takes care of that Strann—­bad luck to him!  Fatty’s in the barroom now.  But what’s the matter?  You seem like you was hearin’ something?”

“I am,” replied Daniels enigmatically.  “I’m hearin’ something that would be music for the ears of Old Nick.”

And he turned on his heel and strode for the barroom.  There he found Fatty in the very act of disposing of a stiff three-fingers of red-eye.  Daniels stepped to the bar, poured his own drink, and then stood toying with the glass.  For though the effect of red-eye may be pleasant enough, it has an essence which appalls the stoutest heart and singes the most leathery throat; it is to full-grown men what castor oil is to a child.  Why men drink it is a mystery whose secret is known only to the profound soul of the mountain-desert.  But while Daniels fingered his glass he kept an eye upon the other man at the bar.

It was unquestionably the one he sought.  The excess flesh of the deputy marshal would have brought his nickname to the mind of an imbecile.  However, Fatty was humming softly to himself, and it is not the habit of men who treat very sick patients to sing.

“I’ll hit it agin,” said Fatty.  “I need it.”

“Have a bad time of it to-day?” asked O’Brien sympathetically.

“Bad time to-day?  Yep, an’ every day is the same.  I tell you, O’Brien, it takes a pile of nerve to stand around that room expectin’ Jerry to pass out any minute, and the eyes of that devil Mac Strann followin’ you every step you make.  D’you know, if Jerry dies I figure Mac to go at my throat like a bulldog.”

“You’re wrong, Fatty,” replied O’Brien.  “That ain’t his way about it.  He takes his time killin’ a man.  Waits till he can get him in a public place and make him start the picture.  That’s Mac Strann!  Remember Fitzpatrick?  Mac Strann followed Fitz nigh onto two months, but Fitz knew what was up and he never would make a move.  He knowed that if he made a wrong pass it would be his last.  So he took everything and let it pass by.  But finally it got on his nerves.  One time—­it was right here in my barroom, Fatty——­”