“Skylarking?” The Padre propped himself against the bar, and his eyes suddenly rested on an ugly stain on the sand floor.
Beasley followed his glance, and beheld the pool of blood which had flowed from the Kid’s wound. He cursed himself for not having obliterated it. Then, in a moment, he decided to carry the matter with a high hand.
“Psha’! What’s the use’n beatin’ around!” he said half-defiantly. “They’re chasin’ Curly to lynch him for shootin’ up the Kid.”
The Padre gave a well-assumed start and emitted a low whistle. Then he turned directly toward the counter.
“You best have a drink on me—for the good of the house,” he said. “I’ll take rye.”
Beasley swung himself across the counter with a laugh.
“Say, that beats the devil!” he cried. “I’ll sure drink with you. No one sooner.”
The Padre nodded.
“Splendid,” he smiled. Then as the other passed glasses and the bottle, he went on: “Tell us about it—the racket, I mean.”