“No. Make them proud of you,” she said firmly.
The judge’s face cleared, and he smiled. “Thank Heaven for you, my child,” he said. “You’re right. That’s the one thing I must do.”
Anderson left the judge’s house in a high rage, but the moment he was in the open his anger gradually left him, and he was once more his cool, calculating self.
“That’s the first time I lost my temper in nine years,” he told himself. “Now what’s to be done? First thing to-morrow I’ve got to see the judge and apologize. I guess I better go and talk it over with my dear brother. How pleased he would be if he knew I’d lost my temper!”
He laughed and strode briskly down Main Street toward the Red Queen. Across from the Lone Star he saw Toothpick, Tad Hicks, Windy Sam, and Jim Anson, staggering along, arm in arm. They had left Kansas asleep at the Lone Star. Anderson waved at them; he was once more the politician.
“Come on, boys, I’ll buy you a drink,” he called.
They staggered after him into the Red Queen and lurched against the bar. The place was filled with shouting, singing men. The back of the long bar shone ornately with polished glasses, mirrors, colored bottles, and other glittering paraphernalia.
Anderson ordered the drinks, and his four guests drank thirstily, with profuse thanks. He nodded to them, told them he would see them later, and pushed his way through the milling crowd toward the gambling room. Unseen, Jim Anson slipped through the crowd in his wake.
The gambling room of the Red Queen was on the left of the dance hall. Here Francisco Garcia, the owner, could be found on any night. The Toad, as he was called by some, but always behind his back, acted as lookout for a big game. He sat on a raised platform between the two faro tables. He was so powerfully built that he looked squat despite his height. Heavy jowls, thick lips, and protruding eyes relieved the monotony of his full-moon face. His swarthiness hinted at Mexican blood. Garcia himself never carried a visible weapon; he relied on his two paid killers for protection—“Yuma Kid” and “Baldy” Flynn. And because his enemies had a strange habit of disappearing or ending violently, he was more feared than any other man along the border.
Bill Anderson, with Jim Anson, still unnoted, at his heels, sauntered to the table and watched the play for a moment. Then he smiled to Garcia.