Comston left his human burden under a tree, and hurried back into the saloon.
“Give me the drink you promised!” he said.
“Yes, here it is, and it is a good one,” said the cunning saloon-keeper. “Take it, for you’ve earned it,” he continued, laughing. “He was heavy, warn’t he?”
“Yes, he was.”
Comston took the glass brimful of strong brandy, tossed it off as though it had been cool water, went out, and seated himself under one of the shade trees only a few paces from the dead man.
It was no unusual thing to see men lying under the trees in front of the saloon. Accordingly several hours passed away before the corpse attracted any special attention. Comston, in half an hour was so much intoxicated, that he fell from the bench, and lay upon the ground in a state of utter unconsciousness. The crowd, accustomed to assemble there every day, gathered in, and among them the two who had seen Comston dragging the body out of the house. One of these, who had spoken first, looking at the corpse closely, exclaimed to the saloon-keeper:
“Look here, Blicker, I do believe Jones is dead! I’ll feel his pulse.”
“I reckon not,” replied Blicker, with perfect nonchalance. “Him and Comston got into a scuffle about three hours ago, and Comston snatched up my knife which was on the counter, and made a slash at Jones, and I took the knife away from him. Comston knocked him down, and I thought Jones was too drunk to get up. I saw that Jones was bleeding, and I ordered Comston to take him out, as I didn’t want blood on my floor. Comston, as you saw, dragged him out, but I didn’t ’spose he was hurt much.”