“Hey, you’re just in time,” he grinned. “Line up here.”
He lifted his glass and chanted:
“Good corn whisky in a polished glass!
Feed it to the cowboys when the range turns brown.
Cows don’t want no liquor, all they need is grass.
So here’s to good corn whisky! Drink her down!
Drink her down!”
Robin found a space between Tommy Thatcher and another man. Mark Steele leaned an elbow on the bar three removes. He craned his head to look at Robin with a sardonic twist of his lips. Robin met his gaze squarely. At least he would not quail before that sneer which held so much of malice. And as their glances clashed Robin felt Tommy Thatcher move. He felt his hand touch something. He looked down. Thatcher had moved in drunken uncertainty, or Robin had been careless. A little of Thatcher’s whisky had spilled on the bar.
“What the hell! What you shovin’ for?”
“I didn’t shove you, Tommy,” Robin said gently.
“No back talk to me!” Thatcher roared. “Make room for a man.”
He bristled up against Robin. It was not in that young man’s mind to give ground for any one. If Steele himself had thrust arrogantly in his face like that he would have done just what he did to Thatcher—put out his hand and shoved him back.
Thatcher stiffened as if some one had struck him. He leaned a little forward, rose on the balls of his feet. His whole body tensed. His face altered. It flashed into Robin’s mind that Thatcher was suddenly sober—that he had only been playing drunk. But he had only a flicker of time for thought. Thatcher said hoarsely: