“I per-sume he did, Monty. If Angel ain’t busted, he’s sure bent like a pretzel.”
“Rance ain’t up yet, eh?”
Chuckwalla shook his head slowly.
“I ain’t seen hide ner horn of him since he left the Eagle, but I think he’s in bed upstairs.”
“Well, we shore missed a good evenin’,” sighed Steve, shoving away from the table. They went down toward the corral, and Chuckwalla sat down to drink a cup of black coffee. It was about the only thing that appealed to his appetite just now.
He heard a step in the doorway, and turned to see old Rance. The old man was bootless, his hair uncombed, and over his right temple was a bruised lump almost as large as an egg. His eyes were bloodshot, and he seemed unsteady.
“Well, f’r God’s sake!” blurted Chuckwalla.
“Rance, you’re a mess!”
“Yeah,” nodded Rance wearily. “Mess.”
He came over to the table and sank down in a chair, feeling tenderly of the lump on his head, while Chuckwalla looked him over seriously.