“Fellow, my name’s Dud Hollister,” promptly answered the other. “D’you like it?”
“Not much. Neither it nor you.”
Houck turned insolently back to the bar for his drink.
Mike was stirring into the glass of liquor cayenne pepper which he was shaking from a paper. He was using as a mixer the barrel of a forty-five.
The salient jaw of Houck jutted out. “What monkey trick are you tryin’ to play on me?” he asked angrily.
“You wanted it hot,” Mike replied, and the bartender’s gaze too was cold and level.
It seemed to the former rustler that here was a second man ready to fasten a quarrel on him. What was the matter with these fellows anyhow?
Another puncher ranged himself beside Hollister. “Who did this bird claim he was, Dud?” he asked out loud, offensively.
“Didn’t say. Took that li’l’ bride out in this storm an’ left her there. Expect he’ll be right popular in Bear Cat.”
Houck smothered his rage. This was too serious to be settled by an explosion of anger and an appeal to arms.