ittin' right now," he added.
"Say, I'm just sick to death handin' out drinks this day."

Holy Dick grinned, his bloodshot eyes twinkling with an evil leer,
which was never far from their expression.

"With things sportin' busy as they done to-day, guess you won't need
to keep at it long. Say, Fyles has brought you dollars an' dollars."

The old rascal gulped down his drink and slouched out of the bar
chuckling. He was always an amiable villain--until roused.

As the door closed behind him O'Brien leaned on his bar, and looked
over at the back view of the still recumbent figure of Charlie Bryant.

"I was thinkin' of closin' down, Charlie," he said quietly.

Charlie looked around. Then, when he became aware that the room was
entirely empty, he sprang up with a sudden start.

He looked dazed. But, after a moment, his confusion slowly faded out,
and he looked into the grinning eyes of probably the shrewdest man in
the valley.

"Feelin' good?" suggested the saloonkeeper. "Have a 'night-cap'?"

Charlie raised one delicate hand and passed it wearily across his
forehead. As it passed once more that eager craving lit his eyes. His
reply came almost roughly.

"Hell--yes," he cried. Then he laughed idiotically.

O'Brien poured out a double drink and passed it across to him. He took
a drink himself. He watched the other as he greedily swallowed the
spirit. Then he drank his more slowly. It was only the second drink he
had taken that day.

"Say, I'm runnin' out of rye and brandy," he said, setting his glass
in the bucket under the counter, and picking up Charlie's. "Guess I
need 10 brandy and 20 rye--right away."

He was wiping the glasses deliberately, and paused as though in some
doubt before he went on. But Charlie made no effort to encourage him.
Only in his eyes was a faint, growing smile, the meaning of which was
not quite apparent.

"I left the order--with the dollars--same place," O'Brien went on
presently. "Same old spot," he added with a grin.

Charlie's smile had broadened. A whimsical humor was peeping out of
his half-drunken eyes.

"Sure," he nodded. "Same old spot."

O'Brien set his glasses aside.

"I need it right away. I'd like it laid in my barn, 'stead of
the--usual spot. I wrote that on my order. Makes it easier--with Fyles
around."

Again Charlie nodded.

"Sure," he agreed briefly.

O'Brien found himself responding to the other's smile.

These whisky-runners meant everything to him, a