During the comments of The Rebel, a stranger, who evidently overheard them, rose from one of the tables in the place and sauntered over to the end of the bar, an attentive listener to the succeeding conversation.  He was a younger man than Priest,—­with a head of heavy black hair reaching his shoulders, while his dress was largely of buckskin, profusely ornamented with beadwork and fringes.  He was armed, as was every one else, and from his languid demeanor as well as from his smart appearance, one would classify him at a passing glance as a frontier gambler.  As we turned away from the bar to an unoccupied table, Priest waited for his change, when the stranger accosted him with an inquiry as to where he was from.  In the conversation that ensued, the stranger, who had noticed the good-humored manner in which The Rebel had taken the chiding of our foreman, pretending to take him to task for some of his remarks.  But in this he made a mistake.  What his friends might safely say to Priest would be treated as an insult from a stranger.  Seeing that he would not stand his chiding, the other attempted to mollify him by proposing they have a drink together and part friendly, to which The Rebel assented.  I was pleased with the favorable turn of affairs, for my bunkie had used some rather severe language in resenting the remarks of the stranger, which now had the promise of being dropped amicably.

I knew the temper of Priest, and so did Flood and Honeyman, and we were all anxious to get him away from the stranger.  So I asked our foreman as soon as they had drunk together, to go over and tell Priest we were waiting for him to make up a game of cards.  The two were standing at the bar in a most friendly attitude, but as they raised their glasses to drink, the stranger, holding his at arm’s length, said:  “Here’s a toast for you:  To General Grant, the ablest”—­

But the toast was never finished, for Priest dashed the contents of his glass in the stranger’s face, and calmly replacing the glass on the bar, backed across the room towards us.  When half-across, a sudden movement on the part of the stranger caused him to halt.  But it seemed the picturesque gentleman beside the bar was only searching his pockets for a handkerchief.

“Don’t get your hand on that gun you wear,” said The Rebel, whose blood was up, “unless you intend to use it.  But you can’t shoot a minute too quick to suit me.  What do you wear a gun for, anyhow?  Let’s see how straight you can shoot.”

As the stranger made no reply, Priest continued, “The next time you have anything to rub in, pick your man better.  The man who insults me’ll get all that’s due him for his trouble.”  Still eliciting no response, The Rebel taunted him further, saying, “Go on and finish your toast, you patriotic beauty.  I’ll give you another:  Jeff Davis and the Southern Confederacy.”

We all rose from the table, and Flood, going over to Priest, said, “Come along, Paul we don’t want to have any trouble here.  Let’s go across the street and have a game of California Jack.”