CHAPTER II—THE EAGLE SALOON
Angel McCoy rode back to Red Arrow, his mind filled with mixed emotions. Although it hurt him deeply, he was obliged to admit to himself that his father had out-gamed him. He tried to explain to his conscience that the whole thing had been a colossal piece of melodrama, and that he feared to get the ace of spades. He was a good shot. There was little doubt in his mind that his first shot would settle the whole argument, and he would be branded as a murderer.
There had never been any love lost between himself and his father. Their natures had always clashed. But Angel, even with his cold-blooded nature, did not want to be branded a parricide. The whole thing seemed so ridiculous now. Lila had been away to school for five years, and had returned a beautiful young lady, fit to turn the head of any man in the country. She was not his sister, and he could conceive of no reason why he should not marry her—if she was willing. She knew now that Rance McCoy was not her father, and, being of age, could do as she pleased.
Angel rode up to his own stable, at the rear of the Eagle saloon and gambling-house, put up his horse and entered the saloon by a rear door. The Eagle was rather a large place for a Western town, being an oblong room about sixty feet long by thirty feet wide. On the right-hand side was a long bar, while part of the center, with all the left-hand side, was taken up by tables and gambling paraphernalia.
At the rear of the saloon were two private rooms, one of which was used as sleeping-quarters by Angel. During the week there was little play at the Eagle, but on Saturday and Sunday, when the Red Arrow cowboys came to town, there was plenty business.
The first man Angel McCoy met as he came into the place was Billy DuMond, a man as old as Rance McCoy, slouchy, unshaven, partly drunk. He was employed as a cowboy with the Half-Box R outfit, owned by “Butch” Reimer. Angel had known DuMond for years.
“Hyah, Angel,” greeted DuMond owlishly.
“Hello, Billy. I was kinda hopin’ I’d see yuh.”
Angel drew DuMond aside and lowered his voice.
“I just had a run-in with the old man, Billy. He knows you told me about Lila; so yuh better steer clear of him.”
DuMond wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swallowed dryly.
“Lemme git yuh straight, Angel. Yuh told him I said it?”
“Yeah; that he killed Lila’s father and then adopted her. You told me about it ten years ago, yuh remember.”
“Uh-huh. Well”—DuMond cuffed his shapeless hat over one ear and stared at Angel—“Well, what did yuh drag me into it fer? I don’t want no trouble.”
“A man don’t get into trouble by tellin’ the truth.”
“Th’ hell they don’t! I knowed a horse-thief that told the truth—and they hung him. And you told old Rance McCoy that I said—I—Angel, I’m shore sorry yuh told it.”
“You scared of him, Billy?”
“Well, by God!” snorted DuMond, cuffing his hat to the opposite side of his head. “Any old time I git m’ spark of life blowed out, who’s goin’ to light her ag’in? Don’t you re’lize that yore old man is danger’s?, He’ll shoot.”
Angel laughed shortly.
“I reckon you’re right, Billy; I’m sorry.”
“Sorrow won’t help me none.”
“Did yuh know Lila’s father?”
“No! I don’t know nothin’! I don’t even ’member tellin’ yuh anythin’. Ten years ago! Must ’a’ been drunk. Who’s this here Lila you’re talkin’ about, Angel?”
“Oh, go to hell!” snorted Angel, and went on toward the bar, where he met Butch Reimer and Dell Blackwell, one of Reimer’s cowboys. Butch Reimer was of medium height, with wide shoulders and a face that might well have belonged to a prize-fighter of the old bare-knuckle school. Several years previous to this time Butch had been kicked square in the face by a sharp-shod horse. There were no plastic surgeons at that time, so Butch’s face had merely healed up, leaving a crooked nose, twisted mouth, and a misplaced eyebrow, not to mention numerous indentations never intended by Nature in her most uncritical moods.
Dell Blackwell was a lithe, olive-complexioned, black-haired cowboy; inveterate gambler, bronco rider, and reputed a bad man to start trouble with.
“I just got nicked for a hundred in yore ecarte game,” growled Butch. “Drew a four and a five; but the dealer turned a natural.”
“Butch had a system,” smiled Blackwell. “Always won his first bet, yuh know; so he slapped down a hundred as a first bet. What’s new, Angel?”
“Not a damned thing, Dell.”
“Have a drink,” growled Butch. “I hear Lila’s home.”
“Yeah,” said Angel shortly.
“Growed up much?”
“Sure.”
“You’re sure talkative. Where yuh been—out to see the old man?”
Angel nodded moodily.
“I thought so,” grinned Butch, as he filled his glass. He knew that Angel and his father usually quarreled.
“What made yuh think that?” demanded Angel.
“Jist from yore actions. Oh, I don’t blame yuh. He jist the same as told me to keep off his place last week. And I’m goin’ to stay off, too. Ask Dell why.”
“Cinch,” laughed Dell. “I dropped in there a couple weeks ago and found the old man practicin’. I tell yuh, he was shootin’ pepper cans off the corral fence at sixty feet. Stuck up six in a row, about two feet apart, and hit every danged one of ’em. You jist try hittin’ three-inch squares every time at sixty feet with a forty-five.”
“I can jist hit my hat at that distance,” grinned Butch, “and I wear the widest thing Stetson makes.”
“And you jist shoot good enough to win my money,” laughed Blackwell.
“Somebody will kill him one of these days,” said Angel.
“Yeah—send him a bomb by express. Let’s have another.”