But a month later, when a coyote howled down near the Indian village, the sergeant said insinuatingly, “Sounds just like the cry of the Whyos, don’t it?” And Cahill, who was listening to the wolf, unthinkingly nodded his head.

The sergeant snorted in triumph.  “Yah, I told you so!” he cried, “a man that’s never been on the Bowery, and knows the call of the Whyo gang!  The drinks are on you, Cahill.”

The post-trader did not raise his eyes, but drew a damp cloth up and down the counter, slowly and heavily, as a man sharpens a knife on a whetstone.

That night, as the sergeant went up the path to the post, a bullet passed through his hat.  Clancey was a forceful man, and forceful men, unknown to themselves, make enemies, so he was uncertain as to whether this came from a trooper he had borne upon too harshly, or whether, In the darkness, he had been picked off for someone else.  The next night, as he passed in the full light of the post-trader’s windows, a shot came from among the dark shadows of the corral, and when he immediately sought safety in numbers among the Indians, cowboys, and troopers in the exchange, he was in time to see Cahill enter it from the other store, wrapping up a bottle of pain-killer for Mrs. Stickney’s cook.  But Clancey was not deceived.  He observed with satisfaction that the soles and the heels of Cahill’s boots were wet with the black mud of the corral.

The next morning, when the exchange was empty, the post-trader turned from arranging cans of condensed milk upon an upper shelf to face the sergeant’s revolver.  He threw up his hands to the level of his ears as though expressing sharp unbelief, and waited in silence.  The sergeant advanced until the gun rested on the counter, Its muzzle pointing at the pit of Cahill’s stomach.  “You or me has got to leave this post,” said the sergeant, “and I can’t desert, so I guess it’s up to you.”

“What did you talk for?” asked Cahill.  His attitude was still that of shocked disbelief, but his tone expressed a full acceptance of the situation and a desire to temporize.

“At first I thought it might be that new ‘cruity’ in F Troop,” explained the sergeant “You came near making me kill the wrong man.  What harm did I do you by saying you kept bar for McTurk?  What’s there in that to get hot about?”

“You said I run with the Whyos.”

“What the h—­l do I care what you’ve done!” roared the sergeant.  “I don’t kmow nothing about you, but I don’t mean you should shoot me in the back.  I’m going to tell this to my bunky, an’ if I get shot up, the Troop’ll know who done it, and you’ll hang for it.  Now, what are you going to do?”

Cahill did not tell what he would do; for, from the other store, the low voice of Mary Cahill called, “Father!  Oh, father!”

The two men dodged, and eyed each other guiltily.  The sergeant gazed at the buffalo-robe portieres with wide-opened eyes.  Cahill’s hands dropped from the region of his ears, and fell flat upon the counter.