“Noids. Shouldn’t be surprised if they’re doin’ the work that his brain ought to do. You’ve got a touch of ’em, too. How’s your tonsils?”
“My which?”
“Let’s play a game of pool, Windy,” suggests Hashknife. “It’s too hot to stand here in the sun. See yuh later, sheriff.”
“Baldy might not live,” says the sheriff, offhanded-like.
“Well,” says Windy, “ther’s enough of ’em at the Bar 20 to bury him decently, but tell ’em not to fire no salutes over his grave, ’cause they might accident’ly hurt each other. Adios.”
We left the sheriff standing there, chawing at the corner of his mustache, and we went into the saloon and started a game. The bartender looks us over, sort of suspicious-like, but can’t refuse to let us play.
“All I asks of you fellers is this. If any of the Bar 20 shows up, fer ——’s sake don’t shoot toward my back-bar,” says he. “That last ruckus ruined all my whisky-glasses and everybody has had to drink out of beer-glasses, and they ain’t got no sense of proportion. Sabe?”
Bowers comes in after while and stands around watching the game. After while he says to Windy, confidential-like—
“I been up to the Bar 20.”
“Well, well,” grunts Windy, amazed-like. “You’re gettin’ to be a regular traveler. When did yuh get back and how are the folks?”