with the blood-fermenting combination of bad—but not cheap—liquor, and the sun. He did not notice Sheridan, who was well away by the time Hollister reined up opposite the platform, but he saw the Chinaman puffing at his cigarette and concentrated his attention upon him with drunken pertinacity. Suddenly he threw up his hat and caught it, cursing his shying mount, swaying in his saddle to retrieve the descending sombrero.
"Whoopee! Doggone my cats, but it's a Chink. Chink, what in hell are you doin' here? This is open season for Chinks in Metzal. Hey, blast yore yeller face, don't you sabby me?"
The Chinaman sat imperturbable.
"I sabby," he said quietly.
"You do? Then light out of here. We want no stinkin', bone-faced, water-spitting Chinks round here. We skin Chinks in Metzal, skin 'em alive an' use their flesh for coyote bait. It don't need no arsenic to pizen 'em." He guffawed at his own crude wit. His two companions looked on with careless interest, waiting developments, as they might have watched the preliminaries of a badger baiting. They were not especial pals of Hollister. He had accompanied them to the station on alcoholic impulse, not by their invitation. But a Chinaman was fair game. The old prejudice against them still lasted in Arizona, save where the towns tolerated them for their utility.
The Oriental did not move. His agate eyes, set slanting under wrinkled lids, were fixed on Hollister, He had finished his cigarette and sat on his bench
