“I’ve been taught a lesson, Mr. Yesler. I’m never going to pack a gun again as long as I live, unless I’m hunting or something of that sort, and I’m never going to drink another drop of liquor. It’s all right for some men, but it isn’t right for me.”
“Glad to hear it. I never did believe in the hip-pocket habit. I’ve lived here twenty years, and I never found it necessary except on special occasions. When it comes to whisky, I reckon we’d all be better without it.”
Yesler made his escape at the earliest opportunity and left them alone together. He lunched at the club, attended to some correspondence he had, and about 3:30 drifted down the street toward the post-office. He had expectations of meeting a young woman who often passed about that time on her way home from school duties.
It was, however, another young woman whose bow he met in front of Mesa’s largest department store.
“Good afternoon, Miss Balfour.”
She nodded greeting and cast eyes of derision on him.
“I’ve been hearing about you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
“Yes, ma’am. What for in particular? There are so many things.”
“You’re a fine Christian, aren’t you?” she scoffed.
“I ain’t much of a one. That’s a fact,” he admitted. “What is it this time—poker?”