next section-line I turned to the right, and ten or fifteen minutes
later saw Osawotamie in the distance.
I drew up, laid the reins on the dashboard, and examined the revolver.
It was a small four-shooter, with a large bore. To make sure of its
efficiency I took out a cartridge; it was quite new. While weighing it
in my hand, the Sheriff's words recurred to me, "It wouldn't stop any
one with grit in him." What did he mean? I didn't want to think, so I
put the cartridge in again, cocked and replaced the pistol in my right-
side jacket pocket, and drove on. Osawotamie consisted of a single
street of straggling frame-buildings. After passing half-a-dozen of them
I saw, on the right, one which looked to me like a saloon. It was
evidently a stopping-place. There were several hitching-posts, and the
house boasted instead of a door two green Venetian blinds put upon
rollers--the usual sign of a drinking-saloon in the West.
I got out of the buggy slowly and carefully, so as not to shift the
position of the revolver, and after hitching up the horse, entered the
saloon. Coming out of the glare of the sunshine I could hardly see in
the darkened room. In a moment or two my eyes grew accustomed to the dim
light, and I went over to the bar, which was on my left. The bar-keeper
was sitting down; his head and shoulders alone were visible; I asked him
for a lemon squash.
"Anythin' in it?" he replied, without lifting his eyes.
"No; I'm thirsty and hot."
"I guessed that was about the figger," he remarked, getting up leisurely
and beginning to mix the drink with his back to me.
I used the opportunity to look round the room. Three steps from me stood
a tall man, lazily leaning with his right arm on the bar, his fingers
touching a half-filled glass. He seemed to be gazing past me into the
void, and thus allowed me to take note of his appearance. In shirt-
sleeves, like the bar-keeper, he had a belt on in which were two large
revolvers with white ivory handles. His face was prepossessing, with
|