When he came out of his trance he showed his gladness, and
at a question of Hare's he silently pointed toward the saloon.
Hare faced the open door. The room had been enlarged; it was now on a
level with the store floor, and was blue with smoke, foul with the fumes
of rum, and noisy with the voices of dark, rugged men.
A man in the middle of the room was dancing a jig.
"Hello, who's this?" he said, straightening up.
It might have been the stopping of the dance or the quick spark in Hare's
eyes that suddenly quieted the room. Hare had once vowed to himself that
he would never forget the scarred face; it belonged to the outlaw Chance.
The sight of it flashed into the gulf of Hare's mind like a meteor into
black night. A sudden madness raced through his veins.
"Hello, Don't you know me?" he said, with a long step that brought him
close to Chance.
The outlaw stood irresolute. Was this an old friend or an enemy? His
beady eyes scintillated and twitched as if they sought to look him over,
yet dared not because it was only in the face that intention could be
read.
The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from some one.
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