They were getting tired of the game when two men jingled in for a drink. They were talking loudly together, and it was impossible to miss the subject of their conversation.
McWilliams gave a little jerk of his head toward one of them. “Judd Morgan,” his lips framed without making a sound.
Bannister nodded.
“Been tanking up all day,” Mac added. “Otherwise his tongue would not be shooting off so reckless.”
A silence had fallen over the assembly save for the braggarts at the bar. Men looked at each other, and then furtively at Bannister. For Morgan, ignorant of who was sitting quietly with his back to him at the faro-table, was venting his hate of Bannister and McWilliams.
“Both in the same boat. Did y’u see how Mac ran to help him to-day? Both waddies. Both rustlers. Both train robbers. Sho! I got through putting a padlock on me mouth. Man to man, I’m as good as either of them—damn sight better. I wisht they was here, one or both; I wisht they would step up here and fight it out. Bannister’s a false alarm, and that foreman of the Lazy D—” His tongue stumbled over a blur of vilification that ended with a foul mention of Miss Messiter.
Instantly two chairs crashed to the floor. Two pair of gray eyes met quietly.
“My quarrel, Bann,” said Jim, in a low, even voice.
The other nodded. “I’ll see y’u have a clear field.”
The man who was with Morgan suddenly whispered in his ear, and the latter slewed his head in startled fear. Almost instantly a bullet clipped past McWilliams’s shoulder. Morgan had fired without waiting for the challenge he felt sure was at hand. Once—twice the foreman’s revolver made answer. Morgan staggered, slipped down to the floor, a bullet crashing through the chandelier as he fell. For a moment his body jerked. Then he rolled over and lay still.