"No," the girl responded coldly.
"Then there's enough cups after all," Harold observed. "I was going to take the pitcher, if either Virginia or this conscientious teetotaler cared for a shot." He chuckled unpleasantly. "I thought I could get more that way."
They poured themselves mighty drinks,—staggering portions that more than half-emptied the first of the quarts. Then they threw back their heads and drained the cups.
The liquor was cheap and new, such as reaches the Indian encampments after passing through many hands. It burned like fire in their throats, and almost at once it began to distill its poison into their veins.
Harold and Pete immediately resumed their chairs; Joe still stood at the table end. He, too, had seen the little pistol of blue steel hanging on the nail. At first the three men were sullen and silent, enjoying the first warmth of the liquor. Then the barriers of self-restraint began to break down.
Harold began to grow talkative, launching forth on an amusing anecdote. But there was no laughter at the end of it. The Indians were never given to mirth in their debauches; both Bill and Virginia were far indeed from a receptive humor.
"What's the matter with this crowd—can't you see a joke?" Harold demanded. "Say, Bill, over there—you who wouldn't take a gentleman's drink—what you sitting there like an old marmot for on a rock pile? Why don't you join in the festivities?"
For all the rudeness of Harold's speech, Bill answered quietly. "Not feeling very festive to-night. And if I were you—I'd go easy on too much of that. You're out of practice, you know."
"Yes—thanks to you. At least, before I came here I lived where I could get a drink when I wanted it, not in a Sunday-school."
Virginia suddenly leaned forward. "Where did you live before you came here, Harold?" she asked.