He put the horses up and repaired to the Fashion, for he had it in mind to ascertain the latest gossip of Moffatt. It was not to be supposed that a man of the outlaw's temper would take the expulsion of Picnic Kate from Badger in a spirit of decorous humility.
The proprietor had it on excellent authority that Steve was far down on the Baccanochi range, endeavoring to cheat the natives out of a herd of stock cattle. The sheriff stood at the bar and conversed for a space.
"You got a new gun, Lafe?" asked the Fashion man, pointing to his belt.
"No-oo. Just been cleaning this up some."
The other held out a languid hand and Johnson passed him the gun. It was a workmanlike .45 Colt, single action, and the hammer rested on an empty chamber for safety. The Fashion proprietor turned it over with the ease and appreciation of an expert. He pulled back the hammer and twirled the chambers.
"She's a beaut," said he.
"Yes, that's a right good gun," Lafe agreed. He received it back carelessly, and slipped it into the holster. They chatted indifferently for a moment, and Lafe drank a nightcap and started home.
The night was thick and sticky. Back of the mountains thunder was muttering. The air clung about him like a soft blanket. Some bull-bats wheeled above his head. Lafe glanced at the dirty sky and wondered whether those hurrying wracks of clouds would shed rain. They had a pitiless habit of holding out hope, only to blow over, leaving the country gasping.
His door was shut. It struck him as odd, because he never locked his house, having nothing of value to safeguard. Inside, it was so black that the darkness seemed to rise up and buffet him in the face. He crossed the empty outer room and felt his way to the table against the far wall. On it stood always an empty bottle, a candle crammed into the neck. This was the sheriff's light system.
His hands groped over the rough surface, but he could not find the candle, nor the matches usually piled close beside. He fumbled in his pocket—nothing there but some keys and loose silver.