"You wouldn't feel satisfied to
know that it was here an' you left it."
"Well, then, get a move on you," growled Calumet. He followed Dade
into the Red Dog.
It was quiet in the barroom. Three men sat at a table near the center
of the room, laughing and talking. They looked up with casual interest
as Dade and Calumet entered, favored them with quick, appraising
glances, and then resumed their talk and laughter. Behind the bar the
proprietor waited, indolently watching.
"I'll take red-eye," said Dade; "the same that made me think I was a
sure enough gambler last night. Did you ever notice," he added,
turning to Calumet, who was filling his glass, "what a heap of
confidence whisky will give a man? Take me, last night. Things was
lookin' rosy. Them gamblers looked like plumb easy pickin'. The more
whisky I drank the easier they looked, until--"
"Have another drink," invited the proprietor, for it was at one of his
tables that Dade had played. His smile was bland and his manner suave
and smooth. He shoved a bottle toward Dade. At the same time he
looked with interest upon Calumet.
"Stranger here, I reckon?" he said. "I seen you loadin' a heap of
stuff into your wagon. What's your ranch?"
"The Lazy Y."
The proprietor started and peered closer at Calumet. "That's old
Marston's place, ain't it?" To Calumet's slow nod, he continued:
"Betty Clayton's runnin' it now.
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