he house."

He leered across at the unsmiling face of the saloon-keeper. Ju
permitted himself to be drawn.

"Nothin' doin', Curly." A solemn shake of the head set his walrus
moustache flapping. Then he drew a cigar from a top vest pocket and
bit the end through, brushing his moustache aside to discover a place
in which to deposit it in his mouth. "I'd sure hate to dope out any
rotgut on you boys. Y'see, I sure got your health at heart. I kind o'
love you fellers to death. I'd hate to see you sufferin' at my hands.
Guess I was raised Christian."

"Was you?"

Curly's sarcasm achieved the laugh intended, and, as a result of his
satisfaction, he flung his last half-dollar on the dingy bar.

"Make that into three drops of liver souse, an' hand us a smile, Ju.
Your face is sure killin' trade."

Ju rolled his cigar across his mouth under the curtain of moustache,
lit it, and proceeded to push an uncorked bottle across to his
customers.

"Guess it ain't a bad proposition handin' you boys a smile. Smiles
allus happen easy on foolish faces. Seein' I ain't deaf I been
listenin' to your talk, an' I ain't made up my mind if you're as bright
as you're guessin', or if you're the suckers your talk makes you out.
Seein' I don't usual take chances, I'll put my dollars on the sucker
business. I've stood behind this darned old bar fer ten years, an' I
guess for five of 'em I've listened to talk like yours--from fellers
like you." He removed the bottle from which the three men had helped
themselves to liberal "four fingers," and eyed their glasses askance.
"Now, you're worritin' over this lousy Lightfoot gang. So was the
others. So's everybody bin fer five years. An' fer five years this
same lousy Lightfoot gang has just been helpin' 'emselves to the cattle
on the ranches around here--liberal. Same as youse fellers have helped
yourselves out o' this bottle. An', durin' that time, I ain't heard
tell of one o' them boys who's been spoilin' to hang 'em all doin' a
thing. Not a thing, 'cep' it's lap up whisky to keep up a supply o'
hot air.

"Wal," he proceeded, in his biting fashion, as he thrust the bottle on
the shelf and began wiping glasses with a towel that looked to be
decomposing for want of soap, "them lousy rustlers is still running
their play in the district jest wher', when, an' how they darn please.
See? You, Curly, are kickin' because your boss Dug McFarlane is too
much of a gentleman. Wal, if I know