“There ain’t no man’s credit good here when his money runs out,” replied the barman sullenly. “Take that hen off my bar. Go ask your owner that dresses in pants why she hasn’t paid off her men earlier.”
A sort of squealing yell arose above the tumult. The boy Cinquo had wheeled like a flash, his heavy revolver in hand. His sweeping blow struck the bartender on the top of the head and dropped him motionless as a log.
“You can’t say her name in no saloon!” shrilled the boy. “That’s no way to treat us folks from Texas. If there’s any of you-all looking for trouble you can git it right here!”
“That’s what you can!” cried Len Hersey, touching elbows. The men of Del Sol edged close together. “Take a drink, Sinker—we’ll owe it to this house if you haven’t got no money.”
The boy reached out his hand, thin, freckled, unwavering, toward the bottle which stood near. It was his first drink at a bar. Well, he had to begin.
“You hear me!” again called out Len Hersey. “This kid gits his drink free right now. We bar any talk against our boss.”
But a tall figure pushed through the crowd directly up to Hersey.
“Look here, my friend,” said Wild Bill Hickok, “I know who you are and it’s all right, but you’re making too much noise. Just keep quiet now. Son, you don’t get any drink—it wouldn’t do you any good.”
He reached out and took the glass which Cinquo Centavos had filled for himself. Whether or not even Wild Bill could have done so much as this without trouble happily did not come into question. McMasters, Nabours, now appeared at his side.
“Shut your mouth, Len,” said Nabours. “Somebody’s liable to fill you full of holes. You know mighty well we’ve got to trail the bulk of the herd to-morrow over to the Smoky Hill and Junction City. Take a drink or so, and then keep your hand off the liquor till you get done your work.”