"They tell me that Betty Clayton ain't no man's fool.

An' here you say--" The rest of it was drowned in a laugh that followed, the other two men joining the speaker.
"Stuck on me, I tell you!" said another voice, and Calumet, half turned toward the table, saw the speaker's face.

It was the face of an egotist--the vain, sensuous visage of a man in whom the animal instincts predominated--the face of the rider that Calumet had seen on the hill in the valley on the day of his return--the face of the man who had shot at him.

The man was good-looking in a coarse, vulgar way, and dissipated, gross, self-sufficient.

Calumet's eyes narrowed with dislike as he looked at him.