“Guess I hadn’t best ke’p you waitin’, sure,” he said ironically. Then his eyes suddenly lit. “Winter stores, eh?” he cried derisively. “Winter stores—an’ why’ll the Padre need ’em, the good kind Padre, when the sheriff’s comin’ along to round him up fer—murder?”
There was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge across the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each other. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. The lightning-like play of life and death.
But the game they all understood so well was not forthcoming. For once Buck’s heat was controlled by an iron will. To have shot Beasley down where he stood would have been the greatest delight of his life, but he restrained the impulse. There were others to think of. He forced himself to calmness.
Beasley had fired his shot in the firm conviction it would strike home unfailingly. Yet he knew that it was not without a certain random in it. Still, after what had been said, it was imperative to show no weakening. He was certain the quarry was the Padre, and his conviction received further assurance as he watched Buck’s face.
For an instant Buck would willingly have hurled the lie in his teeth. But to do so would have been to lie himself, and, later, for that lie to be proved. There was only one course open to him to counter the mischief of this man. He looked squarely into the saloon-keeper’s face.
“The truth don’t come easy to you, Beasley,” he said calmly, “unless it’s got a nasty flavor. Guess that’s how it’s come your way to tell it now.”
“Winter stores,” laughed the man behind the bar. And he rubbed his hands gleefully, and winked his delight in his own astuteness at the men looking on.
Then his face sobered, and it seemed as though all his animosity had been absorbed in a profound regret. His whole attitude became the perfection of a righteous indignation and sympathy, which almost deceived Buck himself.
“See here, Buck,” he exclaimed, leaning across his bar. “You an’ me don’t always see things the same way. Guess I don’t allus hit it with the Padre. No, I guess ther’ ain’t a heap of good feeling among the three of us. But before you leave here I want to say jest one thing, an’ it’s this. Sheriff or no sheriff, deputies or no deputies, if they’re lookin’ fer the Padre for murder I say it’s a jumped-up fake. That man couldn’t do a murder, not to save his soul. An’ it’ll give me a whole heap o’ pleasure fixin’ up your winter stores. An’ good luck to you both—when you hit the long trail.”
A murmur of approval went round the room amongst those of the company who remembered the days before the gold strike. And Beasley, in his long career of mischief, almost achieved popularity.