"Hyas tyee," Charlie said. He tapped his chest. "Chikamin star. Big boss of town. Bright shirt."
"Madrid!" Parris said. "Madrid murdered the three of them!"
"Madrid," Tesno said.
[XXII]
Late in morning the town began to fill up. By eleven-thirty the saloons were doing a jumping, three-deep-at-the-bar business. Extra bartenders, armed and on hand as guards, were pressed into service. Gambling tables that usually didn't open till evening were solidly ringed with players and kibitzers. Other men stood in little groups out of the flow of traffic, talking softly or just waiting.
Sid Saul, owner and operator of the Silver Slipper, remarked cynically that he wished some bull-ragging troublebuster would threaten a shut-down every day. But even as he said it, he dabbed at his bald head with a handkerchief and kept his big, vacant, puppy-dog eyes on the door.
Over the next half hour it came to Sid gradually that something more than curiosity was responsible for this crowd. First, he overheard some of the talk and gathered that Ben Vickers had given the whole crew several hours off and had meted out fifty cents apiece drinking money to boot. Second, he realized with a shock that this was not a drunken crowd; the hum of steady talk was not punctuated by song, raucus laughter, or quarreling. Third, by the time Sid's big gold watch told him it was four minutes till noon, the jam had swollen beyond reason. Men stood almost solid from wall to wall, and Sid could scarcely see the door. He tossed his sweat-soaked handkerchief into a cuspidor and took a place behind the bar.
"Where's Madrid?" he demanded. "He ought to be down here. Eddie, go find Madrid."
Sid served no drinks. He just stood with one hand on the bar and the other within reaching distance of a sawed-off shotgun stashed under it. Except for a quick glance at his watch every minute or so, he kept his eyes on the door.