“Trifle!” Moulin’s voice was pregnant with awed admiration. “I reckon there ain’t no one who knows Dakota’s goin’ to trifle with him—he’s discouraged that long ago. Square, too, square as they make ’em.”
“The Lord knows the country needs square men,” observed Blacky.
He caught a sign from a man seated at a table and went over to him with a bottle and a glass. While Blacky was engaged in this task the door opened and Dakota came in.
Moulin’s admiration and friendship for Dakota might have impelled him to warn Dakota of the presence of Blanca, and he did hold up a covert finger, but Dakota at that moment was looking in another direction and did not observe the signal.
He continued to approach the bar and Blacky, having a leisure moment, came forward and stood ready to serve him. A short nod of greeting passed between the three, and Blacky placed a bottle on the bar and reached for a glass. Dakota made a negative sign with his head—short and resolute.
“I’m in for supplies,” he laughed, “but not that.”
“Not drinkin’?” queried Moulin.
“I’m pure as the driven snow,” drawled Dakota.
“How long has that been goin’ on?” Moulin’s grin was skeptical.
“A month.”