CHAPTER IX
I ACCEPT AN OFFER
We found a small table, one of the several devoted to refreshments for the dancers, in a corner and unoccupied. The affair upon the floor was apparently past history—if it merited even that distinction. The place had resumed its program of dancing, playing and drinking as though after all a pistol shot was of no great moment in the Big Tent.
“You had a narrow shave,” my friend remarked as we seated ourselves—I with a sigh of gratitude for the opportunity. “If you can’t draw quicker you’d better keep your hands in your pockets. Let’s have a dose of t’rant’lar juice to set you up.” Whereupon he ordered whiskey from a waiter.
“But I couldn’t stand by and see him strike a woman,” I defended.
“Wall, fists mean guns, in these diggin’s. Where you from?”
“Albany, New York State.”
“I sized you up as a pilgrim. You haven’t been long in camp, either, have you?”
“No. But plenty long enough,” I miserably replied. 132
“Long enough to be plucked, eh?”