“What orders?”
“I told him I didn’t want any booze peddling.”
“Sure, he told me.”
Wint jerked his head backward toward Main Street. “I ran into a drunk up there,” he said.
Rand grinned. “Can’t help that. We’re not selling any.”
“I’m holding you responsible,” said Wint. “If there’s any sold, I’ll cancel your permits.”
The little man stared at him bleakly. “You’ve got a nerve. You can’t pin anything on us.”
“I can’t help that,” Wint told him. “In fact, I don’t care. If there’s booze sold, you get out. If I pin in on any man, he goes to jail. Is that clear?”
“What is this town, anyway—a damned Sunday school?”
“If you like,” said Wint sweetly; and he and Radabaugh turned away. Rand’s engine man left his throttle to approach his chief and ask: