Lew Perkins sat in the corner on a shaky old apple barrel and brushed back his long mustaches to spit at the cuspidor--and miss it.

If this were Vic Gregg's saloon he would teach the old loafer more accuracy or break his neck.
"How are you, Gregg ?" murmured some one behind him.
He turned and found Sheriff Pete Glass with his right hand already spread on the bar while he ordered a drink for two.

That was one of the sheriff's idiosyncrasies; he never shook hands if he could avoid it, and Gregg hated him senselessly, bitterly, for it.

No doubt every one in the room noticed, and they would tell afterwards how the sheriff had avoided shaking hands with Vic Gregg.

Cheap play for notoriety, thought Gregg; Glass was pushing the bottle towards him.
"Help yourself," said Gregg.
"This is on me, Vic." "I most generally like to buy the first drink." Pete Glass turned his head slowly, for indeed all his motions were leisurely and one could not help wondering at the stories of his exploits, the tales of his hair-trigger alertness.