Braden laughed again, tapping the shoulder of the section-boss. "You ain't wise," he confided. "Farmin' out here with cows around means fences. But hang on if you want to. It's your land." He ended this with a jovial slap, and made for the door. From it, he could see the girls. He gave them a magnificent bow. "Mornin', mornin'," he said, and walked out.
Lancaster went back to the hearth, fairly weak with delight. Dallas and Marylyn joined him. "W'at d' y' think!" gurgled their father. "Say, he ain't got th' sense he ought 'a' been born with!"
"Don't like him," Dallas declared.
"Pig eyes," suggested Marylyn.
At that the section-boss calmed. "Wal," he said, "he's as good anyhow as slop-over soldiers."
Meanwhile, Braden was on his way to The Trooper's Delight, his face glum, his step quick, his arms cutting the air like propellers. When he lumbered into it, he creaked up to the plank bar and helped himself to a finger of whisky. Then he propped himself on an elbow and stood scowling into the rear of the room.
From the gaming-table sounded the raillery of a dozen men. Matthews was there, heels up, hat tipped back, a cigar set between his little teeth.
"What y' givin' us," cried one of his companions. "You're drunk, Nick—plumb drunk."
Braden listened, turning away. An advertisement of brandy hung from a shelf on the far side of the bar. He toyed with his goblet, his eyes fixed on the gaudy, fly-specked picture.
"I ain't drunk," Matthews declared. "I never been drunk. My stomick ain't big 'nough to hold the reequissit amount."