They swung down off the caboose and walked the length of the train. Toward the upper end of the train lanterns were bobbing around, and there was a sound of hammers on steel. There was a dim light in the depot, but they did not stop. About midway of the main street a brightly lighted building beckoned them to the Totem City Saloon.
“Little old cow-town,” said Hashknife as they walked down the wooden sidewalk, passing hitch racks, where saddle horses humped in the dark.
“I seen this place on the map,” offered Sleepy. “I kinda wanted to know what country we were goin’ through, so I took the trouble to look it up. This here is that Lo Lo Valley.”
“Lo Lo, eh?” grunted Hashknife. “They liked it so well that they named it twice.”
They walked into the Totem Saloon and headed for the bar. It was rather a large place for a cow-town. There were not many men in the room and business was slack, but that could be accounted for because of the late hour.
A big, sad-faced cowboy was leaning on the bar, gazing moodily at an empty glass. It was Sunshine Gallagher, the deputy sheriff. He had come to the Totem Saloon, following the meeting at the Arrow ranch, and had imbibed considerable hard liquor. Sudden Smithy was across the room, involved in a poker game.
Hashknife and Sleepy ordered their drinks. Sunshine looked them over critically, and solemnly accepted Hashknife’s invitation to partake of his hospitality.
“I never refuse,” he told them heavily. “’S nawful habit to git into.”
“Drinkin’ whisky?” asked Hashknife.
“No—o—o—refusin’. Oh, I ain’ heavy drinker, y’understand! I jist drink so-and-so. I c’n take it or leave it alone. Right now, I could jist walk away from that drink. Yesshir. Jist like anythin’, I could do that. But wha’s the use, I ask yuh? If it wasn’t made to be drank—would they make it? Now, would they? The anshwer is seven times eight is fifty shix, and twenty-five is a quarter of a dollar. Here’s how, gents.”