“Uh-huh. Belonged to old Bill Wheeler, and she’s got a li’l 33 cut into the forearm. She’s a cinch to hang it onto Skelton, and I can hold them other two—easy.”
Easton laughed and got to his feet.
“You’re clever, Jake. Let’s go and get a drink.”
“I sure am.”
Blue was not adverse to applauding himself. Being a sheriff in Lodge-Pole county entailed too much danger for the remuneration; so nobody cared much about a sheriff’s morals—or methods.
Easton gazed approvingly upon the amount of activity within the four walls of the War-Bonnet, as he led the sheriff to the bar. The click of dice, the rattle of poker chips and the droning voices of dealers was sweet music to Easton’s ears.
A number of men were standing at the bar, but Easton and Blue ignored them. Two cowboys were shaking dice on the bar-top at Easton’s right hand.
“’At’s horse ’n horse,” declared one of them. “One flop, Sleepy.”
Easton shot a sidewise look at the speaker. It was the tall cowboy, who had hit him on the ear, standing elbow to elbow with him; intent on his dice shaking.
Easton slowly turned his head and looked at Blue, who was toying with his glass of liquor. The dice rattled.