Wind River struck the bar three times, emphasizing his vocal imitation of a shot, but the fourth time he missed the bar and hit his chin on the edge of it.
“They must be drunk,” declared the bartender, grinning.
“I’ll shay they are,” agreed Horse-Collar.
“Didja kill any of ’em?” asked Hank Pitts.
“All five,” said Horse-Collar solemnly. “Let’s all have a drink. My conscience bothers me. It’s the firsh time I ever missed a shot. Gittin’ old. Any old time I have to take three shots to kill two men, I’m all wrong. Whatcha drinkin’?”
It was about ten minutes later when Roaring Rigby came into the Ranger Saloon. He leaned against the bar and looked sadly at Wind River Jim, who goggled at him owlishly.
“H’lo corpsh,” said Wind River.
“Go stick your head in a horse-trough,” advised Roaring. “Drown some of the liquor out of you and then go back to the office where you belong. You’re a hell of a deputy!”
“Deputy?” Wind River’s eyes opened widely. He turned and hit Horse-Collar a resounding whack between the shoulders, the force of the blow knocking Horse-Collar against the bar, from which he rebounded and sat down on the floor.
“You quit knockin’ Horsh-Collar ’round,” ordered Lovely. “Who do you think you are, anyway. Git up and pile him, Horsh-Collar. Don’t let’m knock you ’round, the big bully.”