The Padre shrugged.
“I was thinking that these things have been occurring ever since the camp was flooded with——”
“Rye!” Beasley’s eyes sparkled. He reached the Padre’s now empty glass and gave him a fresh one, pushing the bottle toward him. “You’ll hev a drink on me, an’ if you’ve got time, I’ll tell you about this thing.”
The other submitted, and the drink was poured out. The Padre ignored his.
“Get right ahead,” he said in his easy way.
Beasley leered over the rim of his glass as he drank his whisky.
“You think it’s rye,” he said, setting his glass down with unnecessary force. “An’ I say it’s the women—or the woman. Trouble come to this camp with that tow-headed gal over at the farm. Anybody with two eyes could see that. Anybody that wasn’t as blind as a dotin’ mother. The boys are all mad ’bout her. They’re plumb-crazed. They got her tow-head and sky-blue eyes on their addled brains, an’ all the youngsters, anyway, are fumin’ jealous of each other, and ready to shoot, or do anything else that comes handy, to out the other feller. That’s the root of the trouble—an’ you brought that about selling her your farm.”
Beasley had let himself go intending to aggravate, but the other’s manner still remained undisturbed.
“But this only happens when they’re drunk,” he said mildly.
Beasley’s angry impatience broke out.