"I'll be doggoned if you ain't nicer to these here other fellers than you are to me," said Lafe, after a fortnight of this.
"Why shouldn't I be?"
"Why shouldn't—? I swan I don't know."
The admission was wrung from him slowly, and he appeared to be deep in thought during the remainder of the meal. His manner thenceforward took on a grave, distant politeness that Hetty found peculiarly galling. Meanwhile, the world wagged on about as usual.
One day he listened with a very bad grace to certain compliments paid by a puncher to Hetty. He considered them to be in execrable taste, probably because her badinage in reply lacked its usual sting. He frowned sullenly, and Mr. Johnson's reputation was such that this surly demeanor greatly disconcerted her admirer, much to Hetty's annoyance. The sheriff lingered after the others had risen from the table.
"I'll find out right now," he said determinedly.
Hetty happened to lean over his shoulder to remove some dishes. With a dexterous twist, he pinioned her arms and kissed her full on the mouth. She was quite passive under it, gazing steadily into his eyes when he paused.
"Well, I hope you enjoyed yourself," was all she said.
"I ain't complaining," he answered thickly. Yet he released her.
A bad week followed for Lafe. He was irascible, quick to snap up a word, which was foreign to him. So insulting was his behavior that the landlord of the Fashion feared he would have to shoot Lafe some day when he caught him without a gun.