Will’s eyes watched Silas passing round the drinks. He was smiling in the futile manner of a drunken man, and his fingers were clutching nervously at the moulded edge of the bar. Rocket came back and handed him and Abe their whiskey. The former promptly clutched his glass and raised it aloft, spilling the neat spirit as he did so. Then, with drunken solemnity, he called for order.
“Boys,” he cried, “you’ll––you’ll drink a to––toast. Sure you will. Every one of you’ll drink it. My fu––sher wife, Eve––Eve Marsham. Jim Th––Thorpe thought he’d best––me, but–––”
A table was suddenly sent flying in the crowd. A man’s figure leaped out from behind the stove and rushed up to the speaker. It was Jim Thorpe. His eyes were blazing, and a demon of fury glared out upon the drunken man.
“Another word, and I’ll shoot you like a dog! You liar! You thieving–––!”
But his sentence was never completed. Peter Blunt stood between them, one of his great hands gripping Jim’s arm like a vice.
“Shut up!” he cried, in a hoarse whisper. “You’ll have the whole story all over the village.”
But the mischief was done. Everybody present was on their feet agog with excitement, and came gathering round to see the only possible finish to the scene, as they understood it. But, quick as lightning, Peter took in the situation. Flinging Jim aside as though he were a baby, he hugged the drunken Will Henderson in his two great arms, and carried him bodily out of the saloon.
The men looked after him wondering. Then some one laughed. It was an odd, dissatisfied laugh, but it had the effect of relieving the tension. And one by one they turned back to Jim, who was standing moodily leaning on the bar; his right hand was still resting on the gun on his hip.
There was a moment of suspense. Then Jim’s hand left the gun, and he straightened himself up. He tried to smile, but the attempt was a failure.