Again there was absence of contradiction near about the braggart, though ripples of derisive mirth trickled in from the outskirts.
Ratler jerked out his weapon and leaned against the bar. As he waved the muzzle about he stormed furiously: "Who laughed back thar?" And no one volunteered response.
Webb squinted hazily up at one of the reflector-backed lamps. "Damn thet light," he exclaimed. "Hit hurts my eyes." There followed a report and the lamp fell crashing.
For a brief space the drunken man stood holding the smoking weapon in his hand, then he looked up and started, but this time he let the pistol swing inactive at his side and the truculent blackness of his face faded to an expression of dismay.
Kinnard Towers stood facing him with an unpleasant coldness in his eyes.
"I reckon, Ratler," suggested the proprietor, "ye'd better come along with me. I wants ter hev peaceable speech with ye."
In a room above-stairs Kinnard motioned him to a chair much as a teacher might command a child taken red-handed in some mad prank.
"Ratler, hit hain't a right wise thing ter talk over-much," he volunteered at last. "Whar air thet still ye spoke erbout—Bear Cat Stacy's still?"
Webb cringed.
"I war jest a-talkin'. I don't know nuthin' erbout no sich still."