“It’s a wonder he can keep his feet,” said the bartender. “He’s full of absinth and whisky. He won’t know what it’s all about tomorrow.”
“How much did he win from the breed?”
“About two hundred dollars,” said the dealer who was to take Mallette’s place. “Goin’ to give it back?”
“Not unless I get more proof than I’ve got. Don’t let that half-breed ever come in here again. He’s all through.”
“How about Moran?”
“I’ll handle Moran myself.”
“Somebody ought to find Mallette and tell him to look out for Conley,” said the gambler. “That breed will kill him, if he gets a chance—and he’s huntin’ him now.”
A man came through the room and shoved his way up to the bar beside English Ed.
“The sheriff ain’t in here, is he?” he asked nervously.
“What do you want him for?” asked English.