The bartender studied him gravely. He hated to see a man drunk so early in the morning, but it was really none of his business, of course.
‘I don’t see anything the matter,’ he replied shortly.
‘Zasso?’ Joe yawned foolishly. He was wearing a once yellow shirt, a nearly red muffler around his scrawny neck, and his overalls were so tight that one knee had split over a too prominent knee-cap. Joe’s boots were run-over on the outside of the heels, causing him to be knock-kneed. He wore a bolstered gun, and the loops of his belt were full of cartridges.
Failing to strike up a conversation, Joe left that saloon and went down the street to another place, where he found conditions much the same.
‘Where’s the sheriff?’ asked the bartender.
‘Dunno. Went away last night.’
‘And so you went and got drunk, eh? Lem will jist about kick yuh off the job when he comes back.’
‘Zasso? Huh! Let ’im kick. I’m damned if I like thish job. Nawthin’ to do but feed pris’ners. T’ hell with it. Gimme a drink.’
Joe got his drink and went to the next saloon. It seemed that he was making the rounds, and still going strong, when Hashknife, Sleepy, and the sheriff rode in and went to the office. The office and jail were in the same building, and in fact the sheriff’s office was the main entrance to the jail.
Sleepy’s eyes were still of a decidedly mauve hue, but the swelling was gone and he was able to see. Lem had come to the ranch at daylight, and the three of them had headed for Cañonville. They had tried to read the signs along the Coyote Cañon road, but the ground was so hard that they were unable to distinguish one track from another.