Saturday night in Boxelder was an occasion boisterous and full of life. Music from crowded dance halls, whoops from exuberant men, the rustling of an active throng filled the community around Court House Square with jubilee. Just after ten o’clock when an unusual throng had come in, due to cattle droving exigencies, with nesters, homesteaders and bad land scatterers all at hand, an agile little fellow with a face pointed like a rat’s, dashed into the One Way Thru Saloon and, stooping low, hissed to Cock Eye Baer for attention.
“I say, Cock Eye!” he whispered. “Com’ere!”
“What’s it?” Cock Eye leaned to listen.
“I jes’ seen that Stroller Hesbern goin’ inta the Claybank Delight Saloon. My lan’! He looked hateful!”
“Liquorin’ up?”
“Yeh; he bought a big bottle, two quart. I seen it!”
“Much obliged, Skinny,” Cock Eye said. “I’ll remember that. I don’t ferget favors.”
Cock Eye ran his hand under the bar, where he had a long barreled .45 revolver, and made sure that there were loads in it. A minute later another man came in, leaning over and whispering to the bartender:
“Look out, Cock Eye! That stroller bought two quarts to the Claybank—”