Murphy touched his companion’s arm cautiously, and glanced at the bartender.
“Him?” Buck grinned, then leaned across the bar. “Hey, Mike! Tell my friend Murphy here who owns a half interest in this joint, you understand?”
Galway Mike looked up from his newspaper, grinning. His broad, flat face was unspeakably brutal, its brutality much aided by wide nostrils which at some previous date had been crushed flat and had never entirely recovered their beauty.
He looked at Buck, roughly elegant in his corduroys, fine boots, and handsome gun belt; then he looked at Murphy, whose elegance was more pronounced, but equally rough and ready.
“Same gent that owns the Runnin’ Dawg outfit, yer honor,” he responded. “More by token, he’s the only wan, barrin’ yourself, who does be wearin’ a coat these days.”
Buck, taking a handful of cigars from his corduroy coat pocket, laid them on the bar.
“C’rect, Mike,” he assented proudly. “Smoke. And give us that new bottle.”
The bartender obeyed. He cocked an eye at the stranger at the table, but the latter had allowed his head to droop. His mouth hung open. He was palpably asleep—dusty, worn out by hard riding, unkempt save for the gun at his hip, which was excellently cared for.
“Now, as I was sayin’,” pursued Buck, who was no other than Templeton Buck, owner of the Running Dog and a big man in Pahrump County, “that there mortgage is due. I been keepin’ tabs on things, y’ understand? The place ain’t even able to pay the mortgage interest, and I hear it’s been advertised for sale likewise. All of which don’t bother me none, because when I got your Denver wire that you’d come, I done bought in the mortgage in your name.”
“Oh!” said Murphy, and nodded heavily. “I s’pose you got reason for being so roundabout?”