“The one you got today. The letter—oh, ——!”
Lonesome had emitted a long-drawn snore and his head sank slowly until his chin was buried in his collar.
Spot Easton shoved away from the table and, going over to Lonesome, proceeded to go through the old man’s pockets. He shook Lonesome, but the old man continued to snore loudly.
Spot caressed his aching ear, while he reviled Lonesome with every foul epithet his tongue could command. Tiring of that, he drank half of the remaining liquor, threw the bottle across the room, and sat down again.
Then came Jack Blue. He too was a privileged character and did not wait to knock on the door. He squinted at Lonesome and sat on the edge of the table.
“Why don’t you have Doc Clevis fix up yore ear?” he asked, noticing that Easton was fingering the sore organ.
“That —— veterinary!” exploded Easton.
“Doc could take out the soreness.”
“I’m —— if he could!” rasped Easton. “Only one thing’d take the soreness out of that ear, and that’s to notch a sight on that long-geared misfit that hit me.”
“He’s a fresh whippoorwill, all right,” admitted Blue. “Never seen anybody with the gall he’s got. Somebody’s due to make jerky out of his tongue.”