“Like hell, I am!” flared Chuckwalla. “When I left Gila Flats I was the best man in a radius of fifty miles, and I been gettin’ better every day. I ain’t never run, and I ain’t never been whipped. Gimme more of that venom.”
For more than an hour they leaned against the bar and drank what was commonly known as “rot-gut.” Chuckwalla grew mellow, but it did not seem to affect old Rance. He became just a trifle more serious, more polite. Several times he hitched his holster to a more convenient position, and Butch blinked thoughtfully.
“You spoke about Billy DuMond,” reminded old Rance.
“Yeah, I did,” admitted Butch.
“He’s still with yuh, ain’t he?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Yeah.”
That was all. Old Rance took his drinks calmly. Chuckwalla sang bits of songs, using the same tune for all of them. Butch wondered if it wouldn’t be a good idea for him to warn Billy DuMond to keep out of Red Arrow. But Butch was getting rather drunk, and his friendship with DuMond became of less consequence with each successive drink.
Finally old Rance sighed deeply and announced his intentions of going to the Eagle Saloon.
“Tha’s a good idea,” agreed Chuckwalla. “Le’s have a little action. C’mon.”