Billy Crocker scanned the back of the room, his gaze stopping at the table in the corner where two men and two women sat. One of the men wore a buckskin shirt. No one else in the busy saloon caught his eye. To be certain he had picked out the two-hundred-dollar man, he walked over to the bar, where Dewey was already eyeing him with interest. “Gimme a shot of whiskey,” Billy ordered. When Dewey poured it, Billy picked up the glass, but didn’t drink it as he continued to stare at the table in the corner. It was then that Hawk put on his hat, picked up his rifle, and stood up. That was confirmation for Billy when he saw the feather in the hatband. To make doubly sure, he asked Dewey, “That’s Hawk, ain’t it?” Dewey said that it was.

When Hawk started toward the front door, Billy, still holding his drink, moved away from the bar, as if to walk toward the back of the room, thereby passing Hawk. Just as they were passing, Billy lurched over and bumped Hawk’s shoulder. The whiskey glass in his hand dropped to the floor and he jerked back as if he had been attacked. “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Billy demanded. “You need the whole damn room to walk in, you damned drunk?”

Startled, Hawk took a step back and replied. “Sorry, friend,” he said. “I must notta been watchin’ where I was walkin’.” The man seemed to be awfully steamed up about it. So, he offered to buy him another drink, even though he was sure the man walked into him and not the other way around. Judging by the scowling face that met his offer, he decided the confrontation was deliberate, although he had no idea why.

“You damn saddle tramps think you own the saloons, don’t you?” Billy blared. “You ran into me on purpose. Everybody in here saw it, and you’re a damn liar if you say you didn’t.” The room suddenly became very quiet as the noisy crowd became aware of an altercation about to happen.

Certain that he was being deliberately baited now, Hawk asked, “Have you got some kinda problem with me? If you do, why don’t you tell me what it is and maybe we can straighten it out.”

“I got a problem with you, all right. You knocked my drink outta my hand, then tried to tell me I bumped into you. You’re a liar, and I hate liars, almost as much as I hate cowards. And I’m callin’ you out to settle it man-to-man, unless you ain’t got the guts to stand up to me. So, I’m givin’ you a choice. Get ready to use that .44 you’re wearin’ or get down on your hands and knees and crawl outta here like the yellow dog you are.”