He swung from the saddle, tossed the reins over the head of the mustang,
made a stride forward--and then checked himself with a soft curse and
reached for his gun.
For the door of the bar dashed open and down the steps rushed a tall man
with light yellow moustache, so long that it literally blew on either
side over his shoulders as he ran; in either hand he carried a
revolver---a two-gun man, fleeing, perhaps, from another murder.
For Nash recognized in him a character notorious through a thousand
miles of the range, Sandy Ferguson, nicknamed by the colour of that
famous moustache, which was envied and dreaded so far and so wide. It
was not fear that made Nash halt, for otherwise he would have finished
the motion and whipped out his gun; but at least it was something
closely akin to fear.
For that matter, there were unmistakable signs in Sandy himself of what
would have been called arrant terror in any other man. His face was so
bloodless that the pallor showed even through the leathery tan; one eye
stared wildly, the other being sheltered under a clumsy patch which
could not quite conceal the ugly bruise beneath.
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