“Here, ol’-timer,” bade the tall puncher, drumming with his knuckles upon the bar, “wait on fellers that a-got a real thirst. Three long beers!”
The beers were drawn and placed at properly spaced intervals before the three. Their three right elbows rose at an angle; three flagons of creamy brew vanished.
A fourth cowboy slid down toward them.
“Well,” he demanded boisterously, “how’s Little Chestnut makin’ out? Still saddle sore? Still hatin’ to think of the place where you got to meet that there old paint pony of yourn to-mor’ mornin’?”
It was the tall cowboy who made answer.
“Nix on that Chestnut thing,” he said. “That’s old stuff. You should a-seen the little man stay by that pinto of hisn when she got [201] uptious a while ago—jist stay by her and pour the leather into her. No, sir, that there Chestnut stuff don’t go any more for this bunch. This here”—and his long flannel-clad arm was endearingly enwrapped about the shoulders of his small companion—“this here boy from now on is Old Chesty.”
Even though viewed from behind, it might be seen that the person thus rechristened was protruding a proud chest. With a little swagger he breasted the bar.
“I’m buying,” he stated loudly. “Everybody’s in on this one.”
“Whee!” yelled the big cowboy. “Chesty’s buyin’—this one’s on Old Chesty.”
But another voice rose above his voice, over-topping it—the cry of an agonised woman: