“That’s my business.”
“Yea-a-ah? And yuh aim to git him, eh?”
“Well?” defiantly.
“Not so dam’ well,” said Chuck dryly. “You monkey with Slim and you’ll think the seat of yore pants got caught in the door of a volcano. Lemme tell yuh a few things, Angel. You start anythin’ round here and they’ll take you up on a broom. You’re a bad actor in yore own mind. You may be able to hang the Injun-sign on old Rance McCoy, but to us, you’re just another dirty shirt that needs doin’ up. Yuh play a crooked game, pardner—and that lets yuh out. Now, yuh better trot along home and forget all that talk about ‘gettin’’ Slim Caldwell. I know why yuh hate Slim. Everybody in town knows it, Lila as well, and it won’t do yuh no good with her. If I was in yore boots, I’d cut me a straight trail out of this country and not leave a single blaze.”
Angel’s face was colorless now, even to his lips, which were a white line across his white face, and his eyes were half-closed, twitching at the outer corners. But he made no move to resent what Chuck had said. Angel was fast with a gun, but he knew Chuck was as fast. And there were three more guns to account to—not counting the one behind the bar, in easy reach of the bartender.
For at least ten seconds he stood there immovable, before he stepped up to the bar a few feet away from Weed, and asked for whiskey. There was nothing of the craven about Angel. He drank alone, keeping one hand on the bottle.
“Don’t be a fool,” cautioned the bartender.
“I’m payin’ for what I get,” replied Angel evenly.
“Embalmin’ his guts,” said Blackwell. “Lotsa folks have to do that to keep their nerve.”
But Angel did not even look toward Blackwell. As far as appearances went, he might have been an entire stranger enjoying a few drinks alone. But Chuck watched him. He knew Angel was steeping his soul in liquor, either trying to deaden the sting of what Chuck had said or to brew a fresh devil in his mind.