“What’s the matter?” asked Bucknell, rubbing his forehead, which was cut and bruised.
“Nothing’s the matter, yet,” answered Shields shortly. “But there would have been if you hadn’t been too drunk to know what you was doing. I saw you and tried to get here first, but it’s all right now. Take your gun and get out. Here,” he exclaimed, “you promise me to behave yourself and you can go back to Sneed, for he needs you. Otherwise, it’s out of the country after Tex for you. Is it a go?”
“What was that, and who done it?” asked Bucknell, clinging to the bar. “What was it?” he repeated.
“That was me trying to throw you through the wall,” said the sheriff, wishing to give Bucknell no greater cause for animosity against The Orphan, and for the peace of the community; and also because he wished to help The Orphan to refrain from using his gun in the future. “And I’d ’a’ done it, too, only my hand was sweaty. Will you do what I said?” he asked.
Bucknell straightened up and staggered past the sheriff to where The Orphan stood: “You done that, but it’s all right, ain’t it?” he asked. “You ain’t sore, are you?” His eyes had a crafty look, but the dimness of the room concealed it, and The Orphan did not notice the look.
“It’s all right, Bucknell, and I ain’t sore,” he replied. “I won’t be sore if you do what the sheriff wants you to.”
“All right, all right,” replied Bucknell. “Have a drink on me, boys. It’s all right now, ain’t it? Have a drink on me.”
“No more drinking to-day,” quickly said the bartender at a look from Shields. “All the good stuff is used up and the rest ain’t fit for dogs, let alone my friends. Wait ’til next time, when I’ll have some new.”
“That’s too d––d bad,” replied Bucknell, leering at the crowd. “Have a smoke, then. Come on, have a smoke with me.”
“We shore will, Bucknell,” responded Shields quickly.