The Seventh Man | Page 8

of eyes. Beginning with himself, he hated mankind
in general; the burn of the cheap whisky within served to set the color
of that hatred in a fixed dye. He did not lift his chaser, but his hand
closed around it hard. If some one had given him an excuse for a
fist-fight or an outburst of cursing it would have washed his mind as
clean as a new slate, and five minutes later he might have been with
Betty Neal, riotously happy. Instead, everyone overflowed with good
nature, gossip, questions about his work, and the danger in him
crystallized. He registered cold reasons for his disgust.
Beginning in the first person, he loathed himself as a thick-headed ass
for talking to Betty as he had done; as well put a burr under one's
saddle and then feel surprise because the horse bucks. He passed on to
the others with equal precision. Captain Lorrimer was as dirty as a

greaser; and like a greaser, loose-lipped, unshaven. Chick Stewart was
a born fool, and a fool by self-culture, as his never changing grin amply
proved. Lew Perkins sat in the corner on a shaky old apple barrel and
brushed back his long mustaches to spit at the cuspidor--and miss it. If
this were Vic Gregg's saloon he would teach the old loafer more
accuracy or break his neck.
"How are you, Gregg?" murmured some one behind him.
He turned and found Sheriff Pete Glass with his right hand already
spread on the bar while he ordered a drink for two. That was one of the
sheriff's idiosyncrasies; he never shook hands if he could avoid it, and
Gregg hated him senselessly, bitterly, for it. No doubt every one in the
room noticed, and they would tell afterwards how the sheriff had
avoided shaking hands with Vic Gregg. Cheap play for notoriety,
thought Gregg; Glass was pushing the bottle towards him.
"Help yourself," said Gregg.
"This is on me, Vic."
"I most generally like to buy the first drink."
Pete Glass turned his head slowly, for indeed all his motions were
leisurely and one could not help wondering at the stories of his exploits,
the tales of his hair-trigger alertness. Perhaps these half legendary
deeds sent the thrill of uneasiness through Vic Gregg; perhaps it was
owing to the singular hazel eyes, with little splotches of red in them;
very mild eyes, but one could imagine anything about them. Otherwise
there was nothing exceptional in Glass, for he stood well under middle
height, a starved figure, with a sinewy crooked neck, as if bent on
looking up to taller men. His hair was sandy, his face tawny brown, his
shirt a gray blue, and every one knew his dusty roan horse; by nature,
by temperament and by personal selection he was suited to blend into a
landscape of sage-dotted plains or sand. Tireless as a lobo on the trail,
swift as a bobcat in fight, hunted men had been known to ride in and
give themselves up when they heard that Pete Glass was after them.

"Anyway you want, partner," he was saying, in his soft, rather husky
voice.
He poured his drink, barely enough to cover the bottom of his glass, for
that was another of Pete's ways; he could never afford to weaken his
hand or deaden his eye with alcohol, and even now he stood sideways
at the bar, facing Gregg and also facing the others in the room. But the
larger man, with sudden scorn for this caution, brimmed his own glass,
and poised it swiftly. "Here's how!" and down it went.
Ordinarily red-eye heated his blood and made his brain dizzy, it
loosened his tongue and numbed his lips, but today it left him cool,
confident, and sharpened his vision until he felt that he could see
through the minds of every one in the room. Captain Lorrimer, for
instance, was telling a jocular story to Chick Stewart in the hope that
Chick would set them up for every one; and old Lew Perkins was
waiting for the treat; and perhaps the sheriff was wondering how he
could handle Vic in case of need, or how long it would take to run him
down. Not long, decided Gregg, breathing hard; no man in the world
could put him on the run. Glass was treating in turn, and again the
brimming drink went down Vic's throat and left his brain clear,
wonderfully clear. He saw through Betty Neal now; she had purposely
played off Blondy against him, to make them both jealous.
"Won't you join us, Dad?" the sheriff was saying to Lew Perkins, and
Vic Gregg smiled. He understood. The sheriff wanted an excuse to
order another round of drinks because he had it in mind to intoxicate
Gregg;