Part 21 (1/2)
”They are looking pretty hard, but it can't be for you and me. They saw us long ago.”
”There! Hardman and Matthews, coming from behind the bar. There's a private office in behind. You can see the door.... Panhandle, let me tell you Hardman seldom shows up here.”
Pan leisurely got to his feet. His eye quickly caught Matthews' black sombrero, then the big ham of a face, with its drooping mustache. Pan could not see anyone with him until they got out from behind the crowded bar. Then Pan perceived that Matthews' companion was a stout man, bearded, dressed like a prosperous rancher.
”Louise, is that man with Matthews the gentleman we have been discussing?” asked Pan.
”That's the rich fat bloated ---- ---- ----,” replied the girl with eyes like a hawk. ”You don't talk straight, Panhandle.”
”I'm not quite so free as you are with bad language,” replied Pan, smiling down on her. Then with deft movement he hitched his belt round farther forward on his hip. It was careless, it might have been accidental, but it was neither. And the girl grasped its meaning. She turned white under her paint, and the eyes that searched Pan were just then like any other woman's.
”Cowboy, what're you going to do?” she whispered, reaching for him.
”I don't know exactly. You can never tell how actions are going to be taken. But I mean well.”
”Stop!” she called low after him. ”You smiling devil!”
Pan moved leisurely in among the tables toward the bar and the two men standing rather apart from the crowd. He maneuvered so that Matthews'
roving glance fell upon him. Then Pan advanced straight. He saw the sheriff start, then speak hurriedly to Hardman.
Pan halted within six feet of both men. He might never have seen Jard Hardman so far as any recognition was concerned. He faced a man of about fifty years of age, rather florid of complexion, well fed and used to strong drink.
”Excuse me,” spoke Pan, with most consummate coolness, addressing the shorter man. Apparently he did not see Matthews. ”Are you Jard Hardman?”
”Reckon I am, if that's any of your business,” came a gruff reply.
Light, hard, speculative eyes took Pan in from head to feet.
”Do you recognize me?” asked Pan, in the same tone.
”No, Sir, I never saw you in my life,” retorted Hardman, his bearded chin working up and down with the vehemence of his speech. And he turned away.
Pan made a step. His long arm shot out, and his hand, striking hard Ml Hardman's shoulder, whirled him round.
”My name's Smith,” called Pan, in vibrant loud voice that stilled the room. ”Panhandle Smith!”
”I don't know you, Sir,” replied Hardman, aghast and amazed. He began to redden. He turned to Matthews, as if in wonder that this individual permitted him to be thus affronted.
”Well, you knew my dad--to his loss,” declared Pan. ”And that's my business with you.”
”You've no business with me,” fumed Hardman.
”Reckon you're mistaken,” went on Pan, slowly and easily. ”I'm Bill Smith's boy. And I mean to have an accounting with you on that Texas cattle deal.”
These deliberate words, heard by all within earshot, caused little less than a deadlock throughout the room. The bartenders quit, the drinkers poised gla.s.ses in the air, the voices suddenly hushed. Pan had an open s.p.a.ce behind him, a fact he was responsible for. He faced Matthews, Hardman, and then the length of the bar. He left the gamblers behind to Blinky and Gus, who stood to one side. Pan had invited an argument with the owner of the Yellow Mine and his sheriff ally. Every westerner in the room understood its meaning.
”You upstart cowpuncher!” presently shouted Hardman. ”Get out of here or I'll have you arrested.”
”Arrest me! What for? I'm only asking you for an honest deal. I can prove you cheated my father out of cattle. You can't arrest me for that.”