"Miss," interrupted the drummer, "if you ain't too busy, would you mind gettin' me a steak an' some coffee?" The tones were weighted with sarcasm and Sammy writhed in his chair. The girl flushed, turned abruptly and went slowly into the kitchen, from where considerable noise now emanated. In a short time she emerged with the drummer's order, placed it in front of him and started back again. But he stopped her. "I said I wanted it rare an' it's well done. An' also that I wanted fried potatoes. Take it back."
The girl's eyes blazed: "You gave no instructions," she retorted.
"Don't tell me that! I know what I said!" snapped the drummer. "I won't eat it an' I won't pay for it. If you was n't so busy you 'd heard what I said."
Sammy was arising before he saw the tears of vexation in her eyes, but they settled it for him. He placed his hand lightly on her shoulder. "You get me some pie an' take a li'l walk. Me an' this here gent is goin' to hold a palaver. Ain't we, stranger?"
The drummer glared at him. "We ain't!" he retorted.
Sammy grinned ingratiatingly. "Oh, my; but we are." He slung a leg over a chair back and leaned forward, resting his elbow on his knee. "Yes, indeed we are—least-a-wise, I am." His tones became very soft and confiding. "An' I 'm shore goin' to watch you eat that steak."
"What's that you 're going to do?" the drummer demanded, half rising.
"Sit down," begged Sammy, his gun swinging at his knee. He picked up a toothpick with his left hand and chewed it reflectively. "These here Colts make a' awful muss, sometimes," he remarked. "'Specially at close range. Why," he confided, "I once knowed a man what was shot 'most in two. He was a moss-head an' would n't do what he was told. Better sorta lead off at that steak, hombre," he suggested, chewing evenly on the toothpick. Noticing that the girl still lingered, hypnotized by fear and curiosity, he spoke to her over his shoulder. "Won't you please get me that pie, or somethin'? Run out an' borrow a pan, or somethin'," he pleaded. "I don't like to be handicapped when I 'm feedin' cattle."
The drummer's red face paled a little and one hand stole cautiously under his coat—and froze there. Sammy hardly had moved, but the Colt was now horizontal and glowered at the gaudy waistcoat. He was between it and the girl and she did not see the movement. His smile was placid and fixed and he spoke so that she should get no inkling of what was going on. "Never drink on an empty stomach," he advised. "After you eat that meal, then you can fuss with yore flask all you wants." He glanced out of the corner of his eye at the girl and nodded. "Still there! Oh, I most forgot, stranger. You take off yore hat an' 'pologize, so she can go. Jus' say yo 're a dawg an never did have no manners. Say it!" he ordered, softly. The drummer gulped and muttered something, but the Colt, still hidden from the girl by its owner's body, moved forward a little and Sammy's throaty growl put an end to the muttering. "Say it plain," he ordered, the color fading from his face and leaving pink spots against the white. "That's better—now, Li'l Miss, you get me that pie—please!" he begged.
When they were alone Sammy let the gun swing at his knee again. "I don't know how they treats wimmin where you came from, stranger; but out here we 're plumb polite. 'Course you did n't know that, an' that's why you did n't get all mussed up. Yo 're jus' plain ignorant an' can't help yore bringin' up. Now, you eat that steak, pronto!"