‘If he’d been sober, I wouldn’t have kicked the hat.’
‘Hell!’ snorted Ed Jones. ‘If he had been sober, he wouldn’t have worn such a damn lookin’ hat.’
‘Who cares what he would have done?’ growled Dave. ‘What I want to know is, what are we goin’ to do?’
‘Search me,’ said Spike. ‘I know damn well I’m not goin’ back there ag’in to-night.’
‘Goin’ to craw-fish on this job?’
‘Not craw-fish, Dave. Old man Lane won’t be there; so what could we gain by goin’ back?’
‘I reckon that’s true.’
Dave explained to Fairweather what had taken place at the Lane ranch, but the gambler had no suggestions to offer.
‘I’ll ride down in the mornin’ and collect the guns,’ offered Spike. ‘I’m not scared. They said we could have ’em in daylight.’
Red Eller and Ed Jones decided that they wanted to play a little poker, and Dave Morgan wanted to go home; so Dave went away alone. Others drifted in and the games filled up, while Napoleon Bonaparte Briggs slept off his jag, and awoke with a stiff neck and the disposition of a grizzly.