“He is, though. Plumb yellow, from the neck down and feet up,” Tad Hicks hiccuped.
Ten minutes later Bill Anderson stepped into the cantina. He hesitated for a moment when he saw the group at the table; then he nodded to them.
“Boss in the back room?” he asked of Maria.
“Si, si, señor.”
Anderson walked quickly to a door in the back, glancing over his shoulder at the five at the table. Apparently they were too interested in themselves to note his actions. Quietly he passed through and closed the door after him.
Jim Anson insisted on buying one last drink here, despite his comrades’ urging to try the liquor elsewhere. Maria brought the drinks. Kennedy, the dude laughed as he watched them. He leaned over the bar and whispered something to Maria, then left the cantina.
The cow-punchers began to sing, and the woman came forward and ordered them to leave.
“All right, we’ll go,” Jim Anson said with drunken dignity. He staggered to his feet and swayed toward the rear door. He turned the handle and kicked it open. It led to a storeroom.
“That’s not the way, stupid.” The woman gave him a violent shove after the others. He grinned drunkenly at her and staggered out.
About ten that evening Bill Anderson swung in at Judge Ransom’s gate and knocked at the door. When he and the judge were comfortably installed in easy-chairs before a fire, he looked squarely at Ransom.