“Give me and Zeke a glass, Joe,” said Williams; “and this gentleman, too, if he'll drink with me, and take one yourself with us.”
“No,” replied the bar-keeper sullenly, “I'll not drink to any damned foolishness. An' Zeke won't neither.”
“Oh, yes, he will,” Williams returned persuasively, “and so'll you, Joe. You aren't goin' back on me.”
“No, I'll be just damned if I am,” said the barkeeper, half-conquered.
“What'll you take, sir?” Williams asked me.
“The bar-keeper knows my figger,” I answered, half-jestingly, not yet understanding the situation, but convinced that it was turning out better than I had expected.
“And now, Joe, whisky for you and me--the square bottle,” he continued, with brisk cheerfulness.
In silence the bar-keeper placed the drinks before us. As soon as the glasses were empty Williams spoke again, putting out his hand to Zeke at the same time:
“Good-bye, old man, so long, but saddle up in two hours. Ef I don't come then, you kin clear; but I guess I'll be with you.”
“Good-bye, Tom,” replied the bar-keeper, taking the proffered hand, still half-unwillingly, “if you're stuck on it; but the game is to wait for 'em here--anyway that's how I'd play it.”
A laugh and shake of the head and Williams addressed me:
“Now, sir, I'm ready if you are.” We were walking towards the door, when Zeke broke in:
“No, Zeke, I'll play this hand alone,” replied Williams, and two minutes later he and I were seated in the buggy, driving towards Kiota.
We had gone more than a mile before he spoke again. He began very quietly, as if confiding his thoughts to me:
“I don't want to make no mistake about this business--it ain't worth while. I'm sure you're right, and Sheriff Samuel Johnson sent you, but, maybe, ef you was to think you could kinder bring him before me. There might be two of the name, the age, the looks--though it ain't likely.” Then, as if a sudden inspiration moved him:
“Where did he come from, this Sam Johnson, do you know?”
“I believe he came from Pleasant Hill, Missouri. I've heard that he left after a row with his partner, and it seems to me that his partner's name was Williams. But that you ought to know better than I do. By-the-bye, there is one sign by which Sheriff Johnson can always be recognized; he has lost the little finger of his left hand. They say he caught Williams' bowie with that hand and shot him with the right. But why he had to leave Missouri I don't know, if Williams drew first.”