The stranger now lazily arose and stepped into the doorway, leaning
against the jamb and shaking his holster sharply to loosen the gun
for action. He glanced quickly behind him and spoke curtly: "Remember,
now--_I_ am to do all the talking at this auction; you fellers just look
on."
A mumble of assent replied to him, and the townsmen craned their necks
to look out. A procession slowly wended its way up the street, led by
the marshal, astride a piebald horse bearing the crude brand of the CG.
Three men followed him and numerous dogs of several colors, sizes, and
ages roamed at will, in a listless, bored way, between the horse and
the men. The dust arose sluggishly and slowly dissipated in the hot,
shimmering air, and a fly buzzed with wearying persistence against the
dirty glass in the front window.
The marshal, peering out from under the pulled-down brim of his Stetson,
looked critically at the sleepy horse standing near the open door of the
Paradise and sought its brand, but in vain, for it was standing with
the wrong side towards him. Then he glanced at the man in the door, a
puzzled expression stealing over his face. He had known that man once,
but time and events had wiped him nearly out of his memory and he could
not place him. He decided that the other horse could wait until he had
sold the one he was on, and, stopping before the door of the Paradise,
he raised his left arm, his right arm lying close to his side, not far
from the holster on his thigh.
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