“Do I have to wait on him m’self?” asked Hashknife.
The bartender slid out the bottle and a glass. The old man seemed undecided whether to take it or not, but Hashknife settled the question by pouring the drink for him. The old man drank nervously and upset the glass as he put it back. He steadied himself on the bar uatil the liquor began to percolate and then sighed with relief.
A man came from the rear of the place and halted near the end of the bar. He was rather flashily dressed for the range country. His black hair was slightly tinged with gray. His features were narrow and he wore a small mustache, which was waxed to needle-like points. He scowled at the bartender, who got very busy wiping glasses.
The old man considered Hashknife and Sleepy for a moment, and began to search his pockets. He drew out a crumpled envelop and held it close for inspection.
“M’ name’s James B. Lee,” he announced thickly, “but ev’ybody calls me Lonesome Lee. Now, what in —— do you reckon anybody’d write a letter to me for? This’n jist come on the stage.”
He handed the letter to Hashknife, or rather he started to; but the flashily-dressed person had moved nearer and secured it. For a moment nobody spoke. Lonesome swallowed with great difficulty and tried to clear his throat.
“Right sudden, ain’t you?” said Sleepy.
The man ignored his question and spoke directly to Lonesome Lee.
“Nobody ever wrote to you, Lonesome.”
“Yeah, they did, Spot. I—I—” whined Lonesome.