‘Aw, hell, Lem! I’m all——’
‘You’re deputized, Spike.’
‘I hoped yuh wouldn’t do that, Lem.’
‘Well, it’s done—c’mon.’
‘You have to come back through here, don’tcha?’ asked Hashknife. ‘All right; I’ll stay here until yuh come back.’
‘You got a hobby like mine?’ asked Briggs.
‘Somethin’ like it.’
‘Good! I’ll buy a drink.’
Dave Morgan, Cal Dickenson, and Spike Cahill went with the sheriff, while Hashknife stayed with Napoleon and Red Eller. The Oasis was not busy. Only on Saturday and Sunday was the trade heavy. The bartender was a portly sort of person, collarless, moist of skin, with the proverbial ‘spit-curl’ over his left eye and an odor of perfume.
‘It sure was a blow to this country when Peter Morgan died,’ he said mournfully. ‘Grand man; big man. In fact, he was the biggest——’