A distant clatter from the rocky hillside here mingled with the puff of damp air through the window.

“Looks as ef we might hev a show even now,” said Tom Rollins, removing his feet from the stove as we all instinctively faced toward the window.

“I reckon you’re in with us in this, Mosby?” said Briggs, turning toward the proprietor of the grocery, who had been leaning listlessly against the wall behind his bar.

“Arter the man’s had a fair show,” said Mosby, cautiously.  He deprecated the prevailing condition of things, but it was still an open question whether the families would prove as valuable customers as his present clients.  “Everything in moderation, gentlemen.”

The sound of galloping hoofs came nearer, now swishing in the soft mud of the highway, until the unseen rider pulled up before the door.  There was no shouting, however, nor did he announce himself with the usual salvo of firearms.  But when, after a singularly heavy tread and the jingle of spurs on the platform, the door flew open to the newcomer, he seemed a realization of our worst expectations.  Tall, broad, and muscular, he carried in one hand a shotgun, while from his hip dangled a heavy navy revolver.  His long hair, unkempt but oiled, swept a greasy circle around his shoulders; his enormous mustache, dripping with wet, completely concealed his mouth.  His costume of fringed buckskin was wild and outre even for our frontier camp.  But what was more confirmative of our suspicions was that he was evidently in the habit of making an impression, and after a distinct pause at the doorway, with only a side glance at us, he strode toward the bar.

“As there don’t seem to be no hotel hereabouts, I reckon I kin put up my mustang here and have a shakedown somewhere behind that counter,” he said.  His voice seemed to have added to its natural depth the hoarseness of frequent overstraining.

“Ye ain’t got no bunk to spare, you boys, hev ye?” asked Mosby, evasively, glancing at Percy Briggs without looking at the stranger.  We all looked at Briggs also; it was his affair after all—­he had originated this opposition.  To our surprise he said nothing.

The stranger leaned heavily on the counter.

“I was speaking to you,” he said, with his eyes on Mosby, and slightly accenting the pronoun with a tap of his revolver butt on the bar.  “Ye don’t seem to catch on.”

Mosby smiled feebly, and again cast an imploring glance at Briggs.  To our greater astonishment, Briggs said, quietly:  “Why don’t you answer the stranger, Mosby?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mosby, suavely, to the newcomer, while an angry flush crossed his check as he recognized the position in which Briggs had placed him.  “Of course, you’re welcome to what doings I hev here, but I reckoned these gentlemen over there,” with a vicious glance at Briggs, “might fix ye up suthin’ better; they’re so pow’ful kind to your sort.”