Yet not a man moved to apprehend him.
Unarmed he still seemed more dangerous than six common men.
The long rider jerked a whisky bottle upside down over a glass. Half
the contents splashed across the bar. He turned and faced the crowd,
his hand dripping with the spilled liquor.
"Whose liquorin'?" he bellowed.
Not a sound answered him.
"Damn your yaller souls! Then all by myself I'll drink to--"
He stopped short, his eyes wild, his head tilted back. One by one the
cowpunchers gave back, foot by foot, softly, until they stood close to
the opposite wall of the saloon. All the bar was left to Silent. The
whisky glass slipped from his hand and crashed on the floor. In his
face was the meaning of the sound he heard, and now it came to their
own ears--a whistle thin with distance, but clear.
Only phrases at first, but now it rose more distinct, the song of the
untamed; the terror and beauty of the mountain-desert; a plea and a
threat.
The clock struck, sharp, hurried, brazen--one, two, three! Before the
last quick, unmusical chime died out Black Bart stood in the entrance
to the saloon. His eyes were upon Jim Silent, who stretched out his
arms on either side and gripped the edge of the bar.
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