“You sure did,” he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other’s threatening frown. “Well, I ain’t laffin’ at you. It’s—it’s jest at things.”
But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted his information now.
“Ike been along?” he demanded doggedly.
Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.
“Sure,” he said. “He’s been in with a fat wad. Say, he’s a lucky swine. ’Most everything comes his way. Guess he can’t never touch bad. He’s ahead on the game, he’s a golden-haired pet with the gals, an’ he gits gold in—lumps.”
But Pete’s dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and Beasley knew that the man’s mood was an ugly one.
“Wher’s he now?”
“Can’t jest say. I didn’t ask him wher’ he was goin’. Y’ see I cashed his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was sort of priming himself. Maybe he’s gone along to the gals. Have a drink?”
“No—yes, give us a horn of rye.”