“Why?” demanded Ruth haughtily.
“Because, whatever you've been and done, I want ye to have a square show. Ole Nixon has been cavoortin' round yer the last two days, swearin' to kill you on sight for runnin' off with his darter. Sabe? Now, let me ax ye two questions. FIRST, Are you heeled?”
Ruth responded to this dialectical inquiry affirmatively by putting his hand on his revolver.
“Good! Now, SECOND, Have you got the gal along here with you?”
“No,” responded Ruth in a hollow voice.
“That's better yet,” said the man, without heeding the tone of the reply. “A woman—and especially THE woman in a row of this kind—handicaps a man awful.” He paused, and took up the empty glass. “Look yer, Ruth Pinkney, I'm a square man, and I'll be square with you. So I'll just tell you you've got the demdest odds agin' ye. Pr'aps ye know it, and don't keer. Well, the boys around yer are all sidin' with the old man Nixon. It's the first time the old rip ever had a hand in his favor: so the boys will see fair play for Nixon, and agin' YOU. But I reckon you don't mind him!”
“So little, I shall never pull trigger on him,” said Ruth gravely.
The bar-keeper stared, and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Well, thar's that Kanaka Joe, who used to be sorter sweet on Mornie,—he's an ugly devil,—he's helpin' the old man.”
The sad look faded from Ruth's eyes suddenly. A certain wild Berserker rage—a taint of the blood, inherited from heaven knows what Old-World ancestry, which had made the twin-brothers' Southwestern eccentricities respected in the settlement—glowed in its place. The barkeeper noted it, and augured a lively future for the day's festivities. But it faded again; and Ruth, as he rose, turned hesitatingly towards him.
“Have you seen my brother Rand lately?”