“I’ll take a little water,” said Cultus.
“Well,” sighed Bad News, “you know yourself better than I do, but I’d sure rust away in a few months, if I drank water like you do.”
They went over to the War Dance Saloon and had their drink. The bartender made no objection to serving Cultus with water, and when Cultus drifted back to watch a roulette game, the bartender said:
“That’s the gittenest son-of-a-gun you ever seen, Bad News. He’s mucho malo hombre down on the border. I’ve seen smugglers coil right up and bite themselves when his name’s mentioned.”
“Thasso?” Bad News considered Cultus with interest. “Well, he shore seems pleasant enough.”
“Aw, he ain’t got nothin’ again’ yuh, Bad News. I’ve seen him in action, and he’s shore fast. The way he fixed Butch Van Deen and young Marsh was good for sore eyes. That man’s got a rep.”
Bad News drifted back to his little office, and Cultus spent a few dollars on the roulette. Finally he wandered outside again and was standing in front of the saloon, when a rider came up the street.
Cultus rubbed his eyes and stared wonderingly as the man rode to the War Dance hitchrack and tied his horse. It was Blaze Nolan, riding a tall, gray horse, which limped rather heavily on one front foot. He was uncurried, his mane and tail full of burs. Cultus took a deep breath and leaned against a porch-post, as Blaze came up to him.
“That’s shore a tall horse yo’re ridin’, pardner,” said Cultus.
Blaze gave Cultus a keen glance, turned his head and looked back at the horse.