Several cowboys were standing in front of the Prospect Saloon now, and one of them essayed a clog dance. His boots sounded loud on the old wooden sidewalk. Another beat time on a porch post with the end of a quirt. It was like the beating of a tomtom, and he kept it up for a time after the dancer had stopped. The beater was swarthy, with high cheek bones.
Some of Bud’s gang came from the Desert Well and stood around in front of the building. One of them, a little drunker than the rest, started across the street toward the sheriff’s office, but the others stopped him and, after an argument, persuaded him to desist.
“It’s kinda sultry,” said Ben, rubbing his forehead.
The sheriff nodded and looked at the sun, only half of which was visible now. He blinked from the strong light and cut several shavings, which did not suit him at all. A couple of dogs met in the middle of the street; town dogs, fat and with a friendship of long standing. But now they growled ominously at each other, as they circled, looking for an opening.
“Sic ’em!” hissed a cowboy from in front of the Desert Well.
“Take him, Tige! Shake his fleas loose. Four bits on the yaller one.”
“You’ve done made a bet, cowboy. Choose him, Ponto.”
But the dogs only circled and growled, and finally separated.
“Mebbe they’re waitin’ for the sun to go down,” whispered Ben.
The sheriff shook his head.