Part 39 (1/2)

”Small loss 'tw'u'd be to anny wan. A divil iv a desp'rado yez are, wid yer gun an' all! I'm a good mind to swipe yez over th' nut wid me lanthern an' take ut away from yez!”

McHale drew the weapon gently, and spun it on his finger, checking the revolutions six times with startling suddenness. Mr. Quilty watched him sourly.

”Play thricks!” he commented. ”Spin a gun! Huh! Why don't yez get a job wid a dhrama that shows the West as it used to wasn't? I knowed wan iv thim gun twirlers wanst. He was a burrd pluggin' tomatty cans an'

such--a fair wonder he was. But wan day he starts to make a pinwheel iv his finger forninst a stranger he mistakes fer a tindherfut, an' he gets th' face iv him blowed in be a derringer from that same stranger's coat pocket.”

”Sure,” McHale agreed. ”It was comin' to him. He should have stuck to tomatter cans. Them plays is plumb safe.”

”They's no safe play wid a gun,” Mr. Quilty declared oracularly. ”I'm an owlder man nor ye, an' I worked me way West wid railway construction. I knowed th' owld-time gunmen--the wans they tell stories of. Where are they now? Dead, ivery mother's son iv thim, an' most iv thim got it from a gun. No matther how quick a man is, if he kapes at ut long enough he meets up wid some felly that bates him till it--wanst. And wanst is enough.

”Plenty,” McHale agreed. ”Sure. The system is not to meet that sport. I don't figure he lives in these parts.”

Mr. Quilty blinked at him for a moment, and lowered his voice. ”See, now, b'y,” said he, ”I'm strong for mindin' me own business, but a wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. n.o.body's been hurted hereabouts yet, but keep at ut and some wan will be. I don't want ut to be you or Casey. Go aisy, like a good la-ad.”

”I'm easy as a fox-trot,” said McHale. ”So's Casey. We ain't crowdin'

nothin'. Only we're some tired of havin' a hot iron held to our hides.

We sorter hate to smell our own hair singein'. We ain't on the prod, but we don't aim to be run off our own range, and that goes as it lies.”

He rose, flipping his cigarette through the open window, and inquired for freight. They were expecting a binder and a mower. These had not arrived. McHale looked at the date of his bill of lading, and stated his opinion of the railway.

”Be ashamed, bawlin' out me employers in me prisince,” said Mr. Quilty.

”G'wan out o' here, before I take a shotgun to yez.”

”Come up and have a drink,” McHale invited.

”Agin' the rules whin on duty,” Quilty refused. ”An' I do be on duty whiniver I'm awake. 'Tis prohibition the comp'ny has on me, no less.”

McHale rode up the straggling street to s.h.i.+ller's hotel, and dismounted. Bob s.h.i.+ller in s.h.i.+rt sleeves sat on the veranda.

”They's a right smart o' dust to-day, Bob,” said McHale. ”S'pose we sorter sprinkle it some.”

”We'll go into one of the back rooms, where it's cooler,” proposed s.h.i.+ller.

”Oh, I'd just as soon go to the bar,” said McHale. ”Might be some of the boys there. I like to lean up against the wood.”

”Well----” s.h.i.+ller began, and stopped uncertainly.

”Well--what?” McHale demanded.

”Just as well you don't go into the bar right now,” s.h.i.+ller explained.

”You had a sort of a run-in with a feller named Cross, hadn't you--you or Casey? He's in there with a couple of his friends--hard-lookin'

nuts. He's some tanked, and shootin' off his mouth. We'll have Billy bring us what we want where it's cooler.”

McHale kicked a post meditatively three times.

”There's mighty little style about me, Bob,” he said. ”I'm democratic a lot. Havin' drinks sent up to a private room looks to me a heap like throwin' on dog.”

”I asked you,” said s.h.i.+ller. ”It's my house. The drinks are on me.”