All the cowboys went back to their drinking, and the sheriff was forgotten, but both Bud and Pete kept track of the sun. The sheriff, humped in his chair, still whittling, saw Pete come out, saunter to the hitching rack, where he could view the sun. It was still an hour high.
Ben Dolan, fairly well filled with liquor, came over again and squatted on his heels beside the sheriff. Ben was as hard bitted as the rest of the cowboys, but he liked both Bud and Pete so well that he hated to see either of them wounded or killed. And Ben was wise enough to understand that both men would claim their guns at sundown.
They saw Bud leave the Desert Well Saloon, walk halfway across the street, as if heading for a store, stop and look toward the west. He too was keeping cases on the sun. Then he turned and went back to the saloon. Ben made meaningless marks in the sand with a forefinger, while the sheriff whittled thoughtfully.
“You shore collected a lot of guns, Sheriff.”
“Yea-a-ah.”
“Almost sundown.”
The sheriff shut one eye and considered Ben. Then he looked toward both saloons, and went on whittling.
“The boys are gettin’ nervous,” said Ben.
“I notice.”