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EB SMITH was in a bitter frame of mind that afternoon. Out of a job, out of money, wanting a drink, and no credit in the town. The more he thought of the snug nest that Ollie Noggle had nosed him out of, the blacker grew his hate against the long-legged artist of the perfumed hair.

Old Zeb was sitting on a keg in the shade of Jud Springer's combination joint, where he had so lately been a power under the mighty arm of Johnnie Mackey. The smell of sour beer was in the keg, and a score of its mates around him, whetting Zeb's appetite to frenzy. He cursed his bad luck, he cursed Malvina, he cursed the barber and, above all, with a double curse, he blasted Texas Hartwell for his meddlesome interference on the bridal night.

If it hadn't been for that glum-faced stranger, with that thing in his eyes which Smith had come to respect in the very few men who were gifted with it—that thing which was like a cold hand on the back of a man's neck and lead in his heart—if it hadn't been for that solemn, slow-voiced stranger,