“I guess that’s his business.”
“Mebbe,” Breezy grinned widely. “You ain’t sick, are yuh, Amos? I seen yore buggy horse when yuh came in. You must ’a’ been in a hurry. Out at the Box S, wasn’t yuh?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Coil up and bite yourself,” advised Breezy, and walked away.
It was after banking hours, and Breezy found Lester Johnson, the bookkeeper of the bank, at the office talking with the sheriff about Charley Prentice.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Johnson. “I hate to notify the directors, but something must be done. Prentice has been drunk all the week. Keeps a bottle in the washroom. I can’t understand him, and he can’t understand anything.”
“I reckon the directors ort to know about it,” said the sheriff. “A man in his condition ain’t responsible. I’ll go and have a talk with him, before yuh do anythin’, Johnson.”
“That’ll be fine, sheriff.”
Later that afternoon the sheriff went out to Prentice’s home, but Prentice was asleep, doubled up on the couch in the living-room, fully dressed, badly in need of a shave and a haircut.
“What do yuh reckon is the matter with him?” the sheriff asked the Indian woman.