Leslie stepped forward quickly, but paused as he saw Weston was oblivious of his presence.
"I know a good deal about it," exclaimed Ross impulsively, "and I wish I knew the rest–your part of it."
Weston leaned against the bunk, his back toward the silent room, his eyes downcast. He made the explanation with visible reluctance.
"You see, Doc, I used to drink; and when I had two or three glasses down, I’d go out of my head; and when I had come to myself again I wouldn’t know a blooming thing that had happened while I was drunk. But all the time I could ride straight and talk straight and shoot straight."
He paused to moisten his lips. Leslie came a step nearer.
"Well," Weston continued, "to make a long story short, I was foreman on a cattle ranch in Oklahoma two years ago. Sandy and Mart came around wanting a job, and I gave ’em one on the same ranch. Then came the big round-up at North Fork–and there was trouble between the sheep and cattle men."
Weston hesitated and looked down. He raised his hand to his breast pocket and let it fall at his side.
"The night the round-up ended most of us–got drunk."
He paused, shook himself impatiently, and hurried on: "I didn’t go with the rest intending to drink–but I did, what with treating and all that. And when I come to myself, Sandy told me I was one of the men who had done the job on the Quinn sheep. And, knowing what I am when drunk, I believed him and cleared out with him and Mart over the Texas line, and––" his hand traveled to his hair completing the sentence.
"I see!" exclaimed Ross excitedly; "and since then Sandy has held that over you."