So Honey stifled his pride and went to the Arapaho, where he leaned against the bar. Old Limpy was the only person there, except a drunk sprawled across a card-table near the rear of the place.
Limpy squinted at Honey and shifted his eyes toward the back of the room as he slid the glasses across the bar.
“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.”
“For ⸺’s sake!” 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 ⸺ fool! Wake up, can’tcha?”