“Yeah, it looks that way,” admitted Roaring. “But he’s been stayin’ in the house pretty close.”
Lovely Lucas was as good as his word. He came back to Turquoise City with Horse-Collar Fields, who came willingly. It was not often that Horse-Collar left the Stumbling K. He was a small, thin person, about fifty years of age, as bald as the proverbial billiard-ball. He had a slight cast in his left eye. He did the cooking for the Stumbling K.
Just now he wore a pair of misfit chaps. They belonged to Wind River Jim, whose waist measure was several inches larger than that which Horse-Collar boasted. He also wore a cartridge-belt and a holstered gun. Lovely led the way to the Ranger Saloon, with Horse-Collar swaggering along behind him.
“Hello, Horse-Collar,” grinned the bartender, a short, fat person, with a moonlike face and a damp curl of hair gracing his expansive brow.
“Boy, howdy,” said Horse-Collar seriously. “How’s chances to git drunk?”
“Best you ever seen. Ain’t seen you in a long time.”
“No, and you wouldn’t see me now, if it wasn’t that I’m needed here. Cities don’t appeal to me. I jist feel all cramped up in a city. What’ll you have, Lovely?”
“Some of that there corrosive sublimate which is designated as liquor. But before we salivate our lungs, liver and lights, I want to explain to you ag’in, for about the seventh time, Horse-Collar—we ain’t goin’ to git drunk.”
“And for seven times I replies to same,” said Horse-Collar. “When I takes the law in my two hands, I’m goin’ to have m’ stummick in shape to handle m’ brains. Gimme that bottle!”
“You takin’ the law?” asked the bartender.