He felt a sick disappointment, a heavy dread of what was to come. He was thrown into such discord by this unexpected greeting, although why he had not expected it he could not tell, that all thought of the telegram and its accompanying note, which might have made things look a little different to Moore and put a bit on his loud tongue, went completely out of his head.
The gentlemen addressed by Moore turned from their talking and card-playing to gather around Bill, whom Moore drew away from his horse a little distance and turned with grave and silent demeanor, presenting him from all sides to the company. Bill couldn't hide the red of embarrassment, and something more, that he felt burning in his face, but he covered any other outward indication of what was going on inside. He hoped they'd let the thing drop if he took his initiation like a sport.
"This is the little gun he done it with, gentlemen," said Moore, lifting Bill's holster, out of which he had cut the end to give his extra-long barrel room.
The others exclaimed, and looked at each other with feigned surprise and incredulity, a thing which men of the range could do as well as actors on stages not so expansive as their own.
"Where did you think you was wanderin' off to, kid?" one inquired with gentle solicitation.
"Is Mr. Garland here?" Bill asked Moore, hoping to put an end to the uncomfortable experience before it grew any harder to bear, the telegram as completely forgotten in the roiling of his emotions as if it never had been.
