CHAPTER XVIII
THE SHOWDOWN
Racey, walking suddenly round the corner of the Dale stable, came upon Mr. Dale tilting a bottle toward the sky. The business end of the bottle was inserted between Mr. Dale's lips. His Adam's apple slid gravely up and down. He did not see Racey Dawson.
"Howdy," said the puncher.
Mr. Dale removed the bottle, whirled, and thrust the bottle behind him.
"Oh, it's you," he said, blinking, and slowly producing the bottle.
"Huh-have one on me."
"Not to-day," refused Racey, shaking his head. "I got a misery in my stummick. Doctor won't lemme drink any."
"Yeah?" Thus Mr. Dale with interest. Then, again proffering the liquor, he said: "This here's fine for the misery. Better have a snooter."
"No, I guess not."
"Well, I will," averred Mr. Dale and downed three swallows rapidly. "Yeah," he continued, driving in the cork with the heel of his hand, "a feller needs a drink now and then."