CHAPTER XXIII
THE HOLE-IN-THE-WALL
Panhandle Sears, in a back room in the Hole-in-the-Wall, was ugly drunk. The Hole-in-the-Wall had the reputation of running a straight game. Whether or not the game was straight, Panhandle had managed to drop his share of the money from the sale of the Box-S horses. He had had nothing to do with the actual stealing of them, but he had, with the assistance of his Mexican companion Posmo, engineered the sale to a rancher living out of Tucson. It was understood that the horses would find their way across the border.
Now Panhandle was broke again. He stated that unpleasant fact to his companions, Posmo and Shorty,--the latter a town loafer he had picked up in Antelope. Shorty had nothing to say. Panhandle's drunken aggressive cowed him. But Posmo, who had really found the market for the stolen stock, felt that he had been cheated. Panhandle had promised him a third of his share of the money. Panhandle had kept on promising from day to day, liquidating his promises with whiskey. And now there was no money.
Posmo knew Panhandle well enough not to press the matter, just then. But Panhandle, because neither of his companions had said anything when told that he was broke, turned on Posmo.
"What you got to say about it, anyway?" he asked with that curious stubbornness born in liquor.
"I say that you owe me a hundred dollar," declared Posmo.
"Well, go ahead and collect!"
"Yes, go ahead and collect," said Shorty, suddenly siding with Panhandle. "We blowed her in. We're broke, but we ain't cryin' about it."
"That is all right," said Posmo quietly. "If the money is gone, she is gone; yes?"