“One whisky!” ordered Nick, coming into the room with a rush. Without a word the Girl took down a bottle and poured it out for him while he stood quietly looking on, grinning from ear to ear. For Rance’s weakness was known to him as it was to every other man in Manzaneta County, and he believed that the Sheriff had taken advantage of his absence to press his hopeless suit.
“Here you be!” sang out the Girl, and passed the glass over to him.
“He wants it with water,” returned Nick, with a snicker.
With a contemptuous gesture the Girl put the bottle back on the shelf.
“No—no you don’t; no fancy drinks here!” she objected.
“But he says he won’t take it without water,” protested Nick, though there was a twinkle in his eye. “He’s a fellow that’s jest rode in from The Crossin’, so he says.”
The Girl folded her arms and declared in a tone of finality:
“He’ll take it straight or git.”
“But he won’t git,” contended Nick chuckling.
There was an ominous silence. Such behaviour was without a parallel in the annals of Cloudy. For much less than this, as the little barkeeper very well knew, many a man had been disciplined by the Girl. So, with his eyes fixed upon her face, he was already revelling in the situation by way of anticipation, and rejoicing in the coming requital for his own rebuff when the stranger had declined to leave as ordered. It was merely a question of his waiting for the words which would, as he put it, “take the fellow down a peg.” They were soon forthcoming.