The saloon-keeper quickly recovered himself. Nor was he slow to comment.
“Feelin’ mean, some?” he observed, with a sympathetic wink. He cared little how his visitor took his remark. He was used to the vagaries of his customers, and cared not a snap of the fingers for them.
Jim’s reply came swiftly.
“Yes, mean enough to need your hogwash,” he said shortly.
Silas Rocket’s eyes snapped. He was never a man to take things sitting down.
“Hogwash it is when a feller o’ your manners swills it. Mebbe it’ll clear some o’ the filth off’n your measly chest. Have one on me; I’d be real glad to help in the cleanin’ process.”
There was a subtle threat underlying his last words. But Jim cared nothing for what he said.
“I’ll pay for all I need,” he retorted, turning from the counter, and bearing his bottle away over to the window.
Rocket shrugged and turned to his work of setting some sort of order among his bottles. But, as Jim stood at the window with his back turned, his narrow eyes frequently regarded him and his busy brain speculated as to his humor. The ranchman was well liked in Barnriff, but his present attitude puzzled the worthy host.