"You're on!" cried Baptiste.
After they had played awhile a Swede who lived across the creek entered, took a seat and drawing his chair near, watched the game. Presently he spoke. "The Indians are coming in today, so I guess there will be a shooting up the town."
The players paused and regarded each other apprehensively. Others overheard the remark, and now exchanged significant glances. This had been the one diversion of the long winter. Indians who lived on the creek, coming into town, getting drunk, and then as a sally ride up and down the main street and shoot up the town. The last time this had taken place, the bartender's wife had been frightened into hysterics. And thereupon the bartender had sworn that the next time this was attempted, they would have to reckon with him.
The few people about became serious. They knew the bartender was dangerous, and they feared the Indians, breeds, mostly, who made this act their pastime. They were annoyed with such doings; but were inclined to lay the blame at the saloon door, for, although the law decreed that Indians should not be sold liquor they were always allowed to purchase all that they could possibly carry away with them inside and out. So upon this announcement, those about prepared themselves for excitement. The news quickly spread and to augment the excitement, a few minutes later the breeds in full regalia dashed into town. They tied their horses at the front, and proceeded at once to the bar.
"Whiskey," they cried, shifting their spurred boots on the barroom floor.
"Sorry, boys, but I can't serve you," advised the bartender carelessly.
"What!" they cried.
"Can't serve you. It's agin' the law, yu' know."
"T' hell with the law!" exclaimed one.
"I didn't make it," muttered the bartender.