Hashknife turned his body toward the bar. It was a disarming move. Easton stepped in closer to Hashknife; stepped in just in time to be in reach of the right swing that Hashknife pivoted to accomplish.
It caught Mr. Easton flush on the left ear and the force of the smash knocked the gentleman’s feet loose from the floor. The thud of his fall had barely sounded, when Hashknife leaned over him and took away the letter.
Easton did not move. The piano crashed a discord and stopped. One of the girls gave a throaty little squeak and stopped dancing. Hashknife turned to hand the letter to Lonesome Lee, but that worthy was going out of the front door as fast as his unsteady legs would carry him.
“Well, that kinda beats ——!” grunted Hashknife.
The bartender had dropped the glass he was polishing, but continued the action on the bunched fingers of his left hand. He breathed on the fingers and polished harder.
Spot Easton sat up, holding his left ear. He looked around as if wondering what had happened. His eyes strayed to the ceiling, as if wondering that it was still intact. Then he got slowly to his feet and brushed the dust off his broadcloth raiment.
“You asked a question,” reminded Hashknife seriously, “but I don’t reckon you need an answer—not now.”
Spot Easton did not express any opinion. He wadded a silk handkerchief against his bruised ear, turned, and went to the back of the room.
“I’ve got the letter and nobody to give it to,” chuckled Hashknife, and then to the bartender—
“Whatcha polishin’ your fingers for, pardner?”