“I’m going to absolve you from that promise,” she said. “Try and forget all about the Lassiters. We bring bad luck.”
“It’s too late to start forgetting; and besides, I cut my first baby teeth on a horseshoe,” he returned; “and from that day on down to date I’ve been the greatest sort of a hand to counteract bad luck. It positively refuses to settle in my neighborhood. I’ll tell you all about it, Honey, as soon as the round-up’s over.”
She stood and watched him ride off up the country, returning his salutation when he turned in his saddle and waved to her as he reached the rim of the pocket.
He spent the night at a line camp and the next day made a long ride into Caldwell, dismounting before his little cabin in the early evening. A blanketed figure prowled uneasily at the far side of the street as Carver unsaddled, then crossed over and padded silently along the path that led to the house.
“Me like whiskey,” the Indian stated.
“Yes,” said Carver. “So do I. But they do say it’s a sinful appetite.”
The red man pondered this.
“Me buy whiskey,” he amended, exhibiting a gold piece.
“I’m just out,” said Carver. “Try next door.”
The Indian departed, only to be replaced some few minutes later by a second applicant. Carver recalled the incident of the two black bottles on that other day when he had first met Bart Lassiter in the Silver Dollar.