A man in a maroon-coloured shirt, which had been purchased for purposes of decoration, and made, principally, by some Jewish women on the east side of New York, rounded a corner and walked into the middle of the main street of Yellow Sky. In either hand the man held a long, heavy blue-black revolver. Often he yelled, and these cries rang through a of a village, flying over the roofs in a volume that seemed to have no relation to the ordinary strength of a man. It was as if the surrounding stillness formed the arch of a tomb over him. These cries of challenge rang against walls of silence. And his boots had red tops with , of the kind beloved in winter by little boys on the hillsides of New England.
The man's face flamed in a rage of whisky. His eyes, rolling and yet keen for , hunted the still door-ways and windows. He walked with the creeping movement of the midnight cat. As it occurred to him, he roared menacing information. The long revolvers in his hands were as easy as straws; they were moved with an electric swiftness. The little fingers of each hand played sometimes in a musician's way. Plain from the low collar of the shirt, the cords of his neck straightened and sank as passion moved him. The only sounds were his terrible invitations. The calm preserved their demeanour at the passing of this small thing in the middle of the street.
There was no offer of fight—no offer of fight. The man called to the sky. There were no attractions. He and and swayed his revolver here and everywhere.
The dog of the bar-keeper of the Weary Gentleman saloon had not appreciated the advance of events. He yet lay in front of his master's door. At sight of the dog, the man paused and raised his revolver humorously. At sight of the man, the dog sprang up and walked diagonally away, with a head and . The man yelled, and the dog broke into a . As it was about to enter an ,............