“Didn’t somebody say that the sheriff was gittin’ married t’night?” asked Limpy.
Honey poured out his drink and looked at it wearily. Lifting the glass, he looked critically at it.
“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I’m waitin’ for him.”
“That’s him back there,” Limpy pointed toward the rear.
“Eh?” Honey jerked around, staring. “What’s that, Limpy?”
“Joe Rich. Drunk as an owl.”
Honey dropped his glass and limped back to the table where Joe Rich sprawled. He slapped Joe on the shoulder, swearing foolishly.
“Joe! Joe, you bleedin’ fool! Wake up, can’tcha?”
But Joe merely grunted heavily. He was still wearing the clothes he had worn when Honey saw him last, and he had not shaved.
Dead drunk on his marriage night! Honey sagged weakly against the table, speechless. He could visualize all those people out at the Flying H, waiting for them. He shoved away from the table and looked at Limpy.