The drummer's tale was interrupted by a young man who suddenly appeared in the open door. He cried—
"Scratchy Wilson's drunk, and has turned loose with both hands."
The two Mexicans at once set down their glasses, and faded out of the rear entrance of the saloon.
The drummer, innocent and jocular, answered—
"All right, old man. S'pose he has. Come and have a drink, anyhow."
But the information had made such an obvious cleft in every skull in the room, that the drummer was obliged to see its importance. All had become instantly morose.
"Say," said he, mystified, "what is this?"
His three companions made the introductory gesture of eloquent speech, but the young man at the door forestalled them.
"It means, my friend," he answered, as he came into the saloon, "that for the next two hours this town won't be a health resort."