“I’d be more careful of my conversation, Allen, if I were you,” said Pennington quietly. “Just because you’ve been drinking is no excuse for that. Now go on up to the office, as I told you to.”
He had caught the odor of whisky as he jerked the man past him.
“You goin’ to can me for drinkin’—you?” demanded Allen.
“You know what I’m canning you for. You know that’s the one thing that don’t go on Ganado. You ought to get what you gave the Apache, and you’d better beat it before I lose my temper and give it to you!”
The man rose slowly to his feet. In his mind he was revolving his chances of successfully renewing his attack; but presently his judgment got the better of his desire and his rage. He moved off slowly up the hill toward the house. A few yards, and he turned.
“I ain’t a goin’ to ferget this, you—you——”
“Be careful!” Pennington admonished.
“Nor you ain’t goin’ to ferget it, neither, you fox-trottin’ dude!”
Allen turned again to the ascent of the steps. Pennington walked to the Apache and stroked his muzzle.
“Old boy,” he crooned, “there don’t anybody kick you and get away with it, does there?”