No perceptible effort--no
sudden start of tensed muscles, but a movement so smooth that it was
almost unnoticeable. But the hand of Strann fell through thin air.
"You're quick," he said. "If you was as quick with your hands as you are
with your feet----"
Barry paused and the melancholy brown eyes dwelt on the face of Strann.
"Oh, hell!" snorted the other, and turned on his heel to the bar. "Drink
up!" he commanded.
A shout and a snarl from the further end of the room.
"A wolf, by God!" yelled one of the men.
The owner of the animal made his way with unobtrusive swiftness the
length of the room and stood between the dog and a man who fingered the
butt of his gun nervously.
"He won't hurt you none," murmured that softly assuring voice.
"The hell he wont!" responded the other. "He took a pass at my leg just
now and dam' near took it off. Got teeth like the blades of a
pocket-knife!"
"You're on a cold trail, Sam," broke in one of the others. "That ain't
any wolf. Look at him now!"
The big, shaggy animal had slunk to the feet of his master and with
head abased stared furtively up into Barry's face. A gesture served as
sufficient command, and he slipped shadow-like into the corner and
crouched with his head on his paws and the incandescent green of his
eyes glimmering; Barry sat down in a chair nearby.
O'Brien was happily spinning bottles and glasses the length of the bar;
there was the chiming of glass and the rumble of contented voices.
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