"I'll take red-eye," said Dade; "the same that made me think I was a sure enough gambler last night. Did you ever notice," he added, turning to Calumet, who was filling his glass, "what a heap of confidence whisky will give a man? Take me, last night. Things was lookin' rosy. Them gamblers looked like plumb easy pickin'. The more whisky I drank the easier they looked, until—"
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, for it was at one of his tables that Dade had played. His smile was bland and his manner suave and smooth. He shoved a bottle toward Dade. At the same time he looked with interest upon Calumet.
"Stranger here, I reckon?" he said. "I seen you loadin' a heap of stuff into your wagon. What's your ranch?"
"The Lazy Y."
The proprietor started and peered closer at Calumet. "That's old Marston's place, ain't it?" To Calumet's slow nod, he continued: "Betty Clayton's runnin' it now. They say old Marston was the meanest old coyote that ever—"
Calumet's gaze was level and direct, and the proprietor shrank under its cold malignance. Calumet leaned forward. "You're talkin' to the old coyote's son right now," he said. "An' you can speak right out loud in meetin' an' say that you was gassin' through your hat!"
The proprietor paled, then reddened. "I'm beggin' your pardon," he said. "I reckon—you see—there's been talk—"
"Sure," said Calumet. He smiled. It was the smile of reluctant tolerance. "Just talk," he added. "But it won't be healthy talk—hereafter."
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, and he pulled a handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sudden perspiration from his forehead. Then he retreated to the far end of the bar, from whence he tried to appear unconcerned.
Dade finished his drink and set the glass down. But he was visibly excited.