“Pete ken go plumb to hell!” he cried furiously over his shoulder as he passed out.
Beasley dropped nimbly from his counter and looked after him through the window. He saw him vault into the saddle and race away down the trail in the direction of the farm.
His eyes were smiling wickedly.
“Don’t guess Pete’s chasin’ ther’ to suit you, Master Ike,” he muttered. “Marry that gal, eh? Not on your life. You pore silly guys! You’re beat before you start—beat a mile. Buck’s got you smashed to a pulp. Kind of wish I’d given you less cash and more credit. Hello!”
He swung round as the door was again thrust open. This time it was Blue Grass Pete who strode into the room.
“Wher’s Ike?” he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper.
“Gee!” Beasley’s grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment.
Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.
“You’re rattled some,” he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then, as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: “Seems to me I asked you a civil question.”
Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.