“It’s the first sensible thing he’s ever done. Thank gosh, we’re rid of ’em. I’ve been wishin’ they’d land a job.”
“I liked ’em,” said Breezy.
“Thasall right, Breezy; but they got to be pests.”
“I s’pose. Well, I’ll go out and night-herd them two old pelicans for yuh, Ben. But don’t ask too much of me. I’m not so danged stuck on Amos Alexander Baggs m’self.”
Not realising that Breezy was acting in an official capacity, Whispering and Sailor welcomed him with open arms. Len had drawn their wages from Baggs, and they had already forgotten that this was their last pay day at the Box S.
They bought Breezy a couple of drinks, which was sufficient to organise the deputy to a point where he began buying.
“We’re here,” said Whispering owlishly, “to show a man the error of his ways, ain’t we, Sailor?”
“That’s right,” agreed Sailor heartily if thickly. “We’ve dug up the hatchet and we’re packin’ a red belt. Didja know we got throwed out of our home, Breezy? Didja? Well, it’s a sholem fac’. Throwed out in the cold world.”
It had been over a hundred in the shade that day, so Breezy had little sympathy with that statement. He nodded and turned his back to the bar, while he surveyed the room. Several of the games were going full blast, and at a poker table, only a few feet away, sat Amos Alexander Baggs. He shifted his eyes toward Breezy and nodded, possibly acknowledging the guardianship.
Breezy turned back to the bar. The bartender served some drinks at the poker game and when he came back behind the bar he caught Breezy’s eye, indicated the poker table with a jerk of his head and said softly: