Except for a few groups who watched the gambling in the
corners of the big room, there was a general movement towards the bar.
"And make it a tall one, boys," went on the genial stranger. "This is
the first time I ever irrigated Morgan's place, and from what I have
heard today about the closing I suppose it will be the last time. So
here's to you, Morgan!"
And he waved his glass towards the bartender. His voice was well
modulated and his enunciation bespoke education. This, in connection
with his careful clothes and rather modish riding-boots, might have
given him the reputation of a dude, had it not been for several other
essential details of his appearance. His six-gun hung so low that he
would scarcely have to raise his hand to grasp the butt. He held his
whisky glass in his left hand, and the right, which rested carelessly
on his hip, was deeply sunburned, as if he rarely wore a glove.
Moreover, his eyes were marvellously direct, and they lingered a
negligible space as they touched on each man in the room. All of this
the cattlemen noted instantly. What they did not see on account of his
veiling fingers was that he poured only a few drops of the liquor into
his glass.
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