Letting his grasp slip down to the unresisting hand of the stranger, he half-dragged, half-led him, brushing against the wall, into the open door of the deserted bar-room he had just quitted, locked the inner door, poured a glass of whiskey from a decanter, gave it to him, and then watched him drain it at a single draught.

The moon came out, and, falling through the bare windows full upon the stranger's face, revealed the artistic but slightly disheveled curls and moustache of the fugitive, Spencer Tucker.
Whatever may have been the real influence of this unfortunate man upon his fellows, it seemed to find expression in a singular unanimity of criticism.

Patterson looked at him with a half-dismal, half-welcoming smile.

"Well, you are a h-ll of a fellow, ain't you ?" Spencer Tucker passed his hand through his hair and lifted it from his forehead, with a gesture at once emotional and theatrical.

"I am a man with a price on me!" he said bitterly.