He grinned, not looking at the other, apologized, and was proceeding on his way, when he chanced to look toward the doorway of the building he was passing.
Alva Dale was standing just inside the doorway, watching him, and as Sanderson's gaze met his Dale grinned sneeringly.
Sanderson's lips twitched with contempt.

His own smile matched Dale's in the quality of its hostility.
Sanderson was about to pass on when someone struck him heavily between the shoulders.

He staggered and lurched against the rough board front of the building going almost to his knees.
When he could steady himself he wheeled, his hand at his hip.

Standing near him, grinning maliciously, was the man with whom he had collided.
In the man's right hand was a pistol.
"Bump into me, will you--you locoed shorthorn!" sneered the man as Sanderson turned.

He cursed profanely, incoherently.