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“What’s biting the locoed stranger?” the young man inquired of his neighbour.

The other frowned at him darkly.

“Dare’s anyone to take the other end of that handkerchief in his teeth, and fight it out without letting go.”

“Nice joyful proposition,” commented the young man.

He settled himself to closer attention. The wild-eyed man was talking rapidly. What he said cannot be printed here. Mainly was it derogatory of the southern countries. Shortly it became boastful of the northern, and then of the man who uttered it.

He swaggered up and down, becoming always the more insolent as his challenge remained untaken.

“Why don’t you take him up?” inquired the young man, after a moment.

“Not me!” negatived the other vigorously. “I’ll go yore little old gunfight to a finish, but I don’t want any cold steel in mine. Ugh! it gives me the shivers. It’s a reg’lar Mexican trick! With a gun it’s down and out, but this knife work is too slow and searchin’.”

The newcomer said nothing, but fixed his eye again on the raging man with the knife.

“Don’t you reckon he’s bluffing?” he inquired.

“Not any!” denied the other with emphasis. “He’s jest drunk enough to be crazy mad.”

The newcomer shrugged his shoulders and cast his glance searchingly over the fringe of the crowd. It rested on a Mexican.

“Hi, Tony! come here,” he called.

The Mexican approached, flashing his white teeth.

“Here,” said the stranger, “lend me your knife a minute.”

The Mexican, anticipating sport of his own peculiar kind, obeyed with alacrity.

“You fellows make me tired,” observed the stranger, dismounting. “He’s got the whole townful of you bluffed to a standstill. Damn if I don’t try his little game.”

He hung his coat on his saddle, shouldered his way through the press, which parted for him readily, and picked up the other corner of the handkerchief.

“Now, you mangy son of a gun,” said he.

CHAPTER THREE

THE AGREEMENT

Jed Parker straightened his back, rolled up the bandana handkerchief, and thrust it into his pocket, hit flat with his hand the touselled mass of his hair, and thrust the long hunting knife into its sheath.

“You’re the man I want,” said he.

Instantly the two-gun man had jerked loose his weapons and was covering the foreman.

“Am I!” he snarled.

“Not jest that way,” explained Parker. “My gun is on my hoss, and you can have this old toad-sticker if you want it. I been looking for you, and took this way of finding you. Now, let’s go talk.”

The stranger looked him in the eye for nearly a half minute without lowering his revolvers.

“I go you,” said he briefly, at last.

But the crowd, missing the purport, and in fact the very occurrence of this colloquy, did not understand. It thought the bluff had been called, and naturally, finding harmless what had intimidated it, gave way to an exasperated impulse to get even.

“You — — — bluffer!” shouted a voice, “don’t you think you can run any such ranikaboo here!”

Jed Parker turned humorously to his companion.

“Do we get that talk?” he inquired gently.

For answer the two-gun man turned and walked steadily in the direction of the man who had shouted. The latter’s hand strayed uncertainly toward his own weapon, but the movement paused when the stranger’s clear, steel eye rested on it.

“This gentleman,” pointed out the two-gun man softly, “is an old friend of mine. Don’t you get to calling of him names.”

His eye swept the bystanders calmly.

“Come on, Jack,” said he, addressing Parker.

On the outskirts he encountered the Mexican from whom he had borrowed the knife.

“Here, Tony,” said he with a slight laugh, “here’s a peso. You’ll find your knife back there where I had to drop her.”

He entered a saloon, nodded to the proprietor, and led the way through it to a boxlike room containing a board table and two chairs.

“Make good,” he commanded briefly.

“I’m looking for a man with nerve,” explained Parker, with equal succinctness. “You’re the man.”