He tried to borrow a gun from the bartender, who didn’t own one, and then decided to try and find Tommy and get his own gun back. He thought Tommy might be a trusting soul. And while Alden went in search of Tommy Simpson, Terry Ione rode in to Medicine Tree. He wore the coat and vest of that Robin’s-egg blue suit.
Alden went to two other small saloons, looking for Tommy, and in each saloon he drank deeply; too deeply, perhaps. But he managed to forget the eggs so entirely that less than an hour later, when he met Terry in front of the War Dance Saloon, he had forgotten the incident entirely.
“H’lo, par’ner,” he greeted Terry jovially. “Whash on yore mind?”
Terry looked him over gravely. They were a queer looking pair. One with a robin’s-egg blue coat and vest, with overalls; the other with robin’s-egg blue trousers, slightly soiled, and an old, stringy vest and no coat.
“I’ve got a secret,” said Terry seriously. “C’mon where nobody can hear it, and I’ll let yuh in on it.”
“That’s great,” said Alden owlishly. “I hope it’s good.”
“If it ain’t, it’s my fault, feller.”
Alden travelled across the street like a boat in a heavy gale, but he reached the sidewalk in front of the Medicine Tree Bank. Terry led the way down an alley past the bank, while to his ears came the sound of doubtful harmony, rendered by Tommy Simpson, Bad News Buker and Ole Olsen, who were singing in Bad New’s little office just down the street:
“Old Man Lute was a gol darned brute,
And he couldn’t git his cattle up the gol darned chute;