The eyes of the black-bearded man glowed evilly. He stopped in his tracks, his raised hand halted in the act of reaching for a bottle. He stared at the landlord standing in the doorway. The landlord stared back, his thumbs hooked in his belt.
"Get us a drink then," snarled Block, and he joined his friend in front of the bar.
"That's what I'm here for," rejoined the landlord, cheerfully. "I don't care who I serve. Why, I give that a drink awhile ago." He flicked a contemptuous thumb at the drummer.
"Hurry up!" admonished Block.
"No hurry," chirruped the landlord insultingly. "I never was in a hurry, an' I ain't goin' to begin now. What'll yuh have—milk?"
"Say," exclaimed the man with the scratched face, "are you lookin' for trouble?"
"Stranger," replied the landlord, turning a pair of calm brown eyes on his questioner—"stranger, a gent don't never look for trouble. It comes to him unexpected-like. But none ain't comin' to me to-day. Soon as I seen you two tinhorns in here I told a friend o' mine. He's a-watchin' yuh from the window right now."
Block and his friend involuntarily turned their heads. Framed in the open window were the head and shoulders of a man. In his hands was a sawed-off shotgun. The blunt muzzle gaped ominously at them.
"Well, by Gawd!" began the scratch-faced man.
"Shut up!" said Block. "These folks seem scared of us. No use fussin'. We'll just licker an' git."