"Look how he packs his gun."
Another man answering whispered: "There's not six men in Utah who pack a
gun thet way."
Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest
fraction of a second. The brick color of his face turned a dirty white.
"Do you know me?" demanded Hare.
Chance's answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip.
Hare's arm moved quicker, and Chance's Colt went spinning to the floor.
"Too slow," said Hare. Then he flung Chance backward and struck him
blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall. Chance
sank to the floor in a heap.
Hare kicked the outlaw's gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd.
Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his
clear eyes shining like light on ice.
"Do you know me?" asked Hare, curtly.
Holderness started slightly. "I certainly don't," he replied.
"You slapped my face once." Hare leaned close to the rancher. "Slap it
now--you rustler!"
In the slow, guarded instant when Hare's gaze held Holderness and the
other men, a low murmuring ran through the room.
"Dene's spy!" suddenly burst out Holderness.
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