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.
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