Texas stood a moment framed in the open door, in the manner of a man undecided which way he will turn when he has no definite business ahead of him. The four men across the street scattered out of the close formation that they had maintained as they came along, as if they expected hostilities to open immediately. Texas did not betray any evidence that he was even aware of their existence, much less their presence not more than sixty feet distant, where they stood convicted of their intention by their flighty start.
There was a telegraph-pole in the edge of the sidewalk a little way along the street from Uncle Boley's door, the planks trimmed to fit round it. Texas sauntered along to it with the deliberate air of a man who had the night ahead of him, leaned his back against it, and began to roll a cigarette. Two of the mayor's committee started across the street, the other two shifting down to a stand diagonally across from the spot where Texas stood.
Texas ran his eye over them, and kept it on them sharply, for all that he seemed engrossed in the task of contriving his cigarette. They had the appearance of men such as stood lookout over faro games, and worked as bouncers in the rough resorts common to that country and time. Three of them wore white shirts and the little narrow-brimmed derby hats which were popular among the frontier
