Jake Blue slammed the door behind him and went down the big room, half-grinning to himself. At least it was some satisfaction to goad Spot Easton, who was losing prestige about as fast as possible. Easton’s reputation had been earned, but he seemed to be running into a series of hard-luck and mistakes. Jake Blue also felt that the god of luck had deserted him, but he blamed everybody except himself. He went out of the front door and ran into Doc Clevis.
“I’ve been lookin’ for you,” stated Clevis. “What happened to you, Jake? Was you afraid to produce that rifle?”
Blue cursed solemnly and told the doctor what he had told Spot Easton. Doc Clevis removed his hat and polished his bald head with his palm.
“Somebody,” declared the doctor, “stole them guns.”
“Didja think they walked away?” Blue said sarcastically, and added—
“Where’d Skelton and them two longhorns go to?”
Doc Clevis did not know. He was dry, and he offered to buy a drink, but Jake Blue refused.
“You better let me look you over,” said the doctor. “Any time you refuses a drink, you’re sick.”
Jake Blue turned wearily away from the doctor and went toward the office. Spot Easton went to the livery-stable and in a few minutes he came out driving a tall, bay horse hitched to a top-buggy. He drove to the sheriff’s doorway, where Blue leaned dejectedly.
“I’m goin’ to Gunsight,” said Easton.