Pedro Torres was in a bad frame of mind over his enforced bath in the blacksmith shop. He made a few purchases at one of the stores, bought a bath in the one tub at the hotel, and became presentable again.
But his vanity had been badly injured, and he swore dire threats toward the man who had insulted him. He assured himself that he had done nothing wrong, merely desiring to talk with a half-breed girl.
Garcia was not sympathetic. He had seen the incident, and the fact that Torres hankered for revenge made little difference to Garcia. If Torres had asked Garcia to kill Hashknife, Garcia would have instantly agreed to do it.
Baldy Kern smiled grimly and polished his head. He was curious to know a few things about Hashknife and Sleepy. Baldy was not talkative, so he chose to listen. Cloudy Day, still full of liquor, had been told of the incident, and imagined that he had seen it.
“It sure was good,” he announced in the Greenback Saloon. “That tall puncher was all crippled up with rheumatism, but he picked Torres up just like Torres wasn’t nothin’. If that feller’s got rheumatism, I’m paralyzed, thassall.”
Baldy grinned widely. He had seen no evidences of Hashknife’s being a cripple.
“Who is this feller, Cloudy?” he asked.
“Tha’s a question,” said Cloudy owlishly. “Lon introduced me to them, but I didn’t git the names.”
“Lon knows ’em, does he?”
“Oh, abs’lutely. Why, Lon’s an old friend of theirs.”