He was nearing the Blue Wells General Merchandise Store entrance, when four men came out. Three of them were the boys from the AK, but the fourth one was a stranger. Every article of his apparel shrieked of newness.
His sombrero was the biggest they could find in town, and was surmounted with a silver-studded band. His robin’s-egg-blue shirt was of flimsy silk, his overalls new; and the creaking bat-wing chaps were hand-stamped and silver-ornamented. His thin neck was circled with a scarlet silk muffler, and his feet were encased in the highest-heeled boots in town.
Around his waist was a wide yellow cartridge belt, glistening with its load of cartridges, and the revolver holster was a sample of leather-working art. He carried a heavy Colt .45 in his hand—or rather in both hands. James Eaton Legg was in a fair way to become a cowpuncher.
Barnhardt stopped and looked at him. It did not require an expert eye to detect that all four of them were pie-eyed drunk. Barnhardt noticed that the sheriff was coming up the street from his office. The lawyer had heard about what had happened to the sheriff, and he wondered just what the sheriff would have to say to the boys from the AK.
Eskimo stepped back from Jim Legg, reared back on his heels and looked the young man over with appraising eyes.
“Jimmie,” he said thickly, “yo’re a cowboy. Yessir, if you ain’t, I’ve never seen one. My ——, yuh hurt m’ eyes.”
“Look at ’m slaunch-wise,” advised Johnny Grant. “My ——, don’t never take a chance of lookin’ at him square. Ain’t he a work of art? Whatcha tryin’ to do with that gun?”
Jim Legg was trying to see how the thing functioned, and it was fully loaded. It was the first time he had ever handled a six-shooter, and it interested him.
“Don’t cock it!” choked Eskimo. “——’s delight! Yeah—that thing yuh jist pulled back! Don’t touch that thing underneath it! Keep yore finger off it. I tell yuh! A-a-a-w, Johnny, take it away from him, can’tcha?”
“Aw, whazzamatter?” grunted Jim Legg. “I’d like to shee shomebody take it away from me.”