With a cry he flung himself backward, the spring door snapped to and swallowed him up with the speed of a camera shutter; then followed the sound of his heavy rushing footsteps.
"Hell!" exclaimed the old man.

"I had his buttons counted!" With the words he let fall his overcoat, and there, beneath it, Gray beheld what he had more than half suspected, what indeed was ample cause for the quarrelsome stranger's apprehension.

Held close to the owner's body was what in the inelegant jargon of the West is known as a "dog leg." The weapon, a frontier Colt's of heavy caliber, was full cocked under the old man's thumb; the hand holding it was as steady as the blazing eyes above.
With a smile Gray said, "Allow me to congratulate you, sir, upon a most impressive demonstration of the power of mind over matter." "A little killin' helps those scoun'rels," breathed the white-haired warrior.

"Surgin' around, wreakin' vengeance on vinegar bottles! And me with a bad indigestion!" "I don't often permit others to do my fighting.

But you wouldn't let--" "I don't allow anybody--" doggedly began the former speaker, but the street door burst open, a noisy crowd poured into the room, a volley of excited questions was raised.