Chuck had no mean capacity himself, but he was human enough to get drunk in a reasonable length of time. He counted Angel’s drinks in the next half-hour, and the total was twelve. Twelve drinks of raw whiskey on top of what he had already taken.
And all the effect it had was to cause Angel’s lips to draw back in a sneering grin, as he looked at himself in the back-bar mirror. Nor did his hand tremble as he filled the twelfth glass to the top.
Then he walked steadily to the door, where he turned and looked coldly at the group in front of the bar. All except Chuck were owl-eyed with liquor. Chuck watched him closely, anxiously. But all Angel did was to throw back his head and laugh hollowly at them, as though defying them to harm him in any way. Then he stepped outside and went up the street.
Chuck surged away from the bar, swearing softly, and went to the front door, where he saw Angel go down the street, walking as straight as though he had not taken a drink. He stopped in front of Parker’s store, where he seemed to be looking through the window, after which he turned and came back to the Eagle hitch-rack, where he mounted his horse and rode out of town, heading toward the JML ranch.
Chuck sighed with relief as he saw Angel ride away. He did not want trouble with Angel, but he realized that it would be inevitable if Angel stayed in Red Arrow. Blackwell, Sorensen, and Weed were past even the humorous stage now; so Chuck deposited them in convenient chairs, where they might slumber until closing time.
“Where’d Angel go, Chuck?” asked the bartender.
“Home.”
“That’s good. He’s the craziest puncher I ever knew. But can’t he pack liquor! Mister man, he’s the hollowest human I ever knowed. Have a drink, Chuck?”
“I hope to die if I do. One more drink and the dignity of my office is all shot to hell. Good-night.”
Chuck went back to the office, where Scotty was playing solitaire, and told Scotty about Angel.