"Come on, friend," said he; "get in on this."
"Sure," said McHale promptly. "A little number nine, Billy. Here's a ho!" He set his glass down, and faced Cross. "Come again, boys. What'll you take with me?"
But Cross swore suddenly. "Well!" he exclaimed. "Look at what blowed in off of one of them dry-ranch layouts!"
McHale smiled blandly, pushing a bottle in his direction.
"Beats all how some things drift about all over the country," he observed. "Tumbleweeds and such. They go rollin' along mighty gay till they bump into a wire fence somewheres."
"It's sure a wonder to me your boss lets you stray this far off," said Cross, with sarcasm. "He needs a man to look after him the worst way. He don't seem to have no sand. I met up with him along our ditch a while back, and I told him to hike. You bet he did. Only that he'd a girl with him I'd have run him clean back to his reservation."
"You want to get a movin'-picture layout," McHale suggested. "That'd make a right good show—you runnin' Casey. You used to work for one of them outfits, didn't you?"
"No. What makes you think I did?"
"Your face looked sorter familiar to me," McHale replied. "Studyin' on it, it seems like I'd seen it in one of them picture shows down in Cheyenne. Right good show, too. It showed a bunch of boys after a hoss thief. He got away."
"Haw-haw!" laughed one of the regulars, and suddenly froze to silence. Billy, behind the bar, stood as if petrified, towel in hand. Cross's face, flushed with liquor, blackened in a ferocious scowl.