The bartender, suddenly realizing that he did not have a glass in his hand, recovered the one from the floor.
“What’sa matter with everybody around here?” asked Sleepy. “The old man hummed out of here like a spike, and you got absent-minded. Ain’t the War-Bonnet used to seein’ trouble, or is all this honkatonk only a blind for a Sunday school?”
“That—that was Spot Easton,” stammered the bartender.
“Who’s he—the king?” asked Hashknife.
The bartender glanced keenly toward the rear of the place, where Easton had entered one of the built-in rooms. He leaned across the bar and whispered:
“You better look out for him, gents. Spot Easton’s a ——winder, y’betcha. He’s quicker’n a flash with a gun, and he used to be a middle-weight prize-fighter. Glad it ain’t me he’s sore at.”
“You don’t reckon he’s sore at me, do you?” Hashknife seemed penitent.
“Huh?” Such a foolish question amazed the bartender.
“Gee cripes! He must be touchy if he is,” observed Sleepy. “Some folks wears their feelin’ on their sleeves.”
“Well, for ——’s sake!” wailed the bartender. “I dunno whatcha mean by that. If you got hit in the ear——”