Without another word Ichabod turned away, and almost immediately the other men followed, the door closing behind them. Only the bar-keeper stood impassive, watching.
That instant the red heat of the liquor returned to the big man’s brain and he picked up the revolver. Muttering, he staggered over to the bar.
“D––n him––the hide-faced––” he cursed. “Gimme a drink, Barney. Whiskey, straight.”
“Not a drop.”
“What?”
“Never another drop in my place so long as I live.”
“Get out! You coward!”
“But, Barney––”
“Not another word. Go.”