“Ain’t drinkin’,” sullenly. “Don’t nobody touch me. I’m in the market for a scalp and I’m not askin’ for much ha’r.”
“Don’t be a dang fool, Sailor. Let’s have a good time.”
“I’m havin’ a good time.”
The sheriff went over to Baggs, who whispered earnestly. The sheriff frowned heavily, shook his head. The other players seemed uneasy. Harry Cole got up from his table and came over there, keeping an eye on Sailor Jones.
Just a little, wizened old man, with deep-sunk eyes and fox-tail hair, his collar hiked up around his flaring ears, Sailor was almost mummylike in his immobility, the palm of one skinny hand rubbing the point of his hip above his holstered gun.
“Wash ’m, Shailor?” mumbled Whispering owlishly. “I’m for yuh, ol’-tim’r. Bite ’m, Tige!”
“You shut up,” warned Breezy, who felt obliged to show some authority.
“You shut me up, will yuh?” Whispering straightened himself belligerently. “You try ’t!”
“My Gawd—you, too!” wailed Breezy. “I guess we better wire for the troops.”
Baggs was getting up from his chair, shielding himself with the sheriff. His idea was to get out of there. Sailor laughed harshly, and snarled: