Hashknife grinned at Sleepy’s disgruntled way of pulling on his chaps, and went out of the door. Sleepy swore softly as he followed him.
Spot Easton was not in a happy frame of mind at all. His ear had swollen to twice its normal size and had assumed the shade of a pickled beet. It not only pained him, but it hurt his pride; he was not in the habit of getting the worst of a personal encounter.
The evening business of the War-Bonnet was beginning to be audible to Spot, who was sequestered in his little private room in the rear. A half-empty whisky bottle decorated the table beside him, and his jaws were clamped tightly over a badly frayed cigar, which smoked much from the wrong end. He jerked it out of his mouth, cursed and hurled it across the room where it continued to throw up a streamer of smoke.
Just then, without any warning, the door swung open and Lonesome Lee staggered in. The old man was gloriously drunk, but tried to brace up when he faced Easton.
“Sus-somebody said you wanted to shee me,” he muttered thickly.
“Yes; you lousy old bum!” snapped Easton, kicking a chair away from the table.
Lonesome eased himself shakily into the chair and sprawled weakly.
“Where’s that letter?” demanded Easton.
“Tha’ letter?” Lonesome grinned foolishly. “Wha’ letter?”