He knew what was happening--Lazette had heard what Taggart
had been saying about him, and was keeping aloof, giving him a clear
field.
Presently he entered the Red Dog.
There were a dozen men here, drinking, playing cards, gambling. The
talk died away as he entered; men sat silently at the tables, seeming
to look at their cards, but in reality watching him covertly. Other
men got up from their chairs and walked, with apparent unconcern, away
from the center of the room, so that when Calumet carelessly tossed a
coin on the bar in payment for a drink which he ordered, only three men
remained at the bar with him.
He had taken quick note of these men. They were Neal Taggart; a tall,
lanky, unprepossessing man with a truculent eye rimmed by lashless
lids, and with a drooping mustache which almost concealed the cruel
curve of his lips, whom he knew as Denver Ed--having met him several
times in the Durango country; and a medium-sized stranger whom he knew
as Garvey. The latter was dark-complexioned, with a hook nose and a
loose-lipped mouth.
Calumet did not appear to notice them. He poured his glass full and
lifted it, preparatory to drinking. Before it reached his lips he
became aware of a movement among the three men--Garvey had left them
and was standing beside him.
"Have that on me," said Garvey, silkily, to Calumet.
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