“Why—”
The girl did not wait for him to finish his sentence, but quickly placed a bottle and glass before him.
“My compliments,” she whispered, smiling.
“You’re very kind—thanks,” returned the road agent, and proceeded to pour out a drink.
Meanwhile, little of what was taking place had been lost on Jack Rance. As the whispered conversation continued, he grew more and more jealous, and at the moment that Johnson was on the point of putting the glass to his lips, Rance, rising quickly, went over to him and deliberately knocked the glass out of his hand.
With a crash it fell to the floor.
“Look here, Mr. Johnson, your ways are offensive to me!” he cried; “damned offensive! My name is Rance—Jack Rance. Your business here—your business?” And without waiting for the other’s reply he called out huskily: “Boys! Boys! Come in here!”
At this sudden and unexpected summons in the Sheriff’s well-known voice there was a rush from the dance-hall; in an instant the good-natured, roistering crowd, nosing a fight, crowded to the bar, where the two men stood glaring at each other in suppressed excitement.
“Boys,” declared the Sheriff, his eye never leaving Johnson’s face, “there’s a man here who won’t explain his business. He won’t tell—”
“Won’t he?” cut in Sonora, blusteringly. “Well, we’ll see—we’ll make ’im!”