“It must have been,” said Leach dryly.
“C’mon up to the Short Horn, and I’ll buy a drink,” offered Keller.
“No thanks,” Leach shook his head. “I’m going home.”
“How about you, Grant?” queried Keller. Grant grinned and started up the street.
“Just to show that I’m a hail-feller-well-met, c’mon.”
Leach looked after them, a half-sneer on his face, and went slowly down to McGill’s saloon, where he went inside.
Tung-g-g, hung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, bong-g-g-g, zung-g-g-g.
Mrs. Wesson lifted her head from the pillow and strained her ears, trying to figure out what was making the peculiar noise. She had been listening to it for quite a while. It was a weird noise, half-metallic, half-human.
She reached over to a chair, where an alarm clock ticked loudly, and, in the dim light, took note of the time.