for Pop Giersberg, but literally thrown, darted the line of white, while the gun flipped out of its holster as if it possessed life of its own and spoke. The white line ended half way to the farther side of the target, and the revolver slid again into hiding.
A clamor of amazement broke from the crowd, but the deputy looked steadily, without enthusiasm, at the stranger.
“Joe Cumber,” he said, when the noise fell away a little, “I guess you'll see the sheriff. Harry, take Joe Cumber up to Pete, will you?”
One of the bystanders jumped at the suggestion and led the other from the room, with a full half of the crowd following. The deputy remained behind, thoughtful.
“What's the matter?” asked one of the spectators. “You look like you'd seen a ghost.”
“Gents,” answered the deputy, “do any of you recollect seein' this feller before?”
They did not.
“They's something queer about him,” muttered the deputy.
“He may be word-shy,” proffered a wit, “but he sure ain't gun-shy!”
“When he looked at me,” said the deputy, more to himself than to the others, “it seemed to me like they was a swirl of yaller come into his eyes. Made me feel like some one had sneaked up behind me with a knife.”
In his thoughtfulness his eyes wandered, and wander-
