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.
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