“Guess our few cents don’t matter, anyways,” agreed Curly, his dull eyes brightening. “I’d say the Kid’s right. I ain’t lapped a sup o’ rye in months.”
“It ain’t bad fer Soapy,” agreed Beasley. “Wot say, boys?”
He glanced round for approval and found it in every eye except Slaney’s. The bereaved father seemed utterly indifferent to anything except his own thoughts, which were of the little waxen face he had watched grow paler and paler in his arms only yesterday morning, until he had laid the poor little dead body in his weeping woman’s lap.
Buck felt the time had come for him to interpose. He turned on Beasley with unmistakable coldness.
“Guess the Padre got the rest of his farm money yesterday—when the woman came along,” he said. “An’ the vittles he ordered are on the trail. I’d say you don’t need to light out—yet.”
Beasley laughed offensively.
“Still on the charity racket?” he sneered.
Buck’s eyes lit with sudden anger.
“You don’t need to touch the vittles,” he cried. “You haven’t any woman, and no kiddies. Guess there’s nothing to keep you from getting right out.”
He eyed the man steadily, and then turned slowly to the others.