Calumet surveyed him with a glance of mild interest. He set his glass
down, and the other silently motioned to the bartender for another.
"Stranger here, I reckon?" said Garvey as he poured his whiskey.
"Where's your ranch?"
"The Lazy Y," said Calumet.
The other filled his glass. "Here's how," he said, and tilted it
toward his lips. Calumet did likewise. If he felt the man's hand on
the butt of the six-shooter at his hip, he gave no indication of it.
Nor did he seem to exhibit any surprise or concern when, after drinking
and setting the glass down, he looked around to see that Garvey had
drawn the weapon out and was examining it with apparently casual
interest.
This action on the part of Garvey was unethical and dangerous, and
there were men among the dozen in the room who looked sneeringly at
Calumet, or to one another whispered the significant words, "greenhorn"
and "tenderfoot." Others, to whom the proprietor had spoken concerning
Calumet, looked at him in surprise. Still others merely stared at
Garvey and Calumet, unable to account for the latter's mild submission
to this unallowed liberty. The proprietor alone, remembering a certain
gleam in Calumet's eyes on a former occasion, looked at him now and saw
deep in his eyes a slumbering counterpart to it, and discreetly retired
to the far end of the bar, where there was a whiskey barrel in front of
him.
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