“To be decent he’d orter to eat, sure. But, as fur liquor, he’ll sartin die without it.”
“Well,” said Roy, “fill him up with somethin’ to eat. Then, give him his drink.”
The old man was stumbling toward the bar as Roy hurried from the place. Outside the “Crater” he waited some minutes for Weston. Apparently, more than one drink was demanding the Colorado man’s attention. And the boy grew nervous. From time to time he peered into the glaring resort, and at last had about concluded to make his way to the corral and spend the night with Doolin when the waited-for Weston suddenly appeared.
“That’s part o’ the game out here, Son,” he began by way of apology, “but I’m sorry to keep ye waitin’. Now we’ll turn in.”
They had scarcely started along the walk when there was a sudden commotion in the adjoining restaurant. With what seemed to be the crash of chairs overturning, there was an oath and a scuffle and a shrunken figure was hurled across the plank walk. Instantly, a dozen men seemed to spring up. Several hands grasped a senseless red-shirted body and straightened it out on the dust-covered walk. A smear of red covered the prostrate man’s yellow-white uncovered hair. His eyes were closed and he was breathing heavily.
“Humph,” exclaimed Weston, as he pushed Roy around the onlookers. “Old Utah Banning--an’ all in.”
Weston explained that the old man was known in the camp only as Utah Banning. For years he had been too old for any active work. No one knew how he managed to exist. On the edge of the town, furthest from the river, he lived alone in an adobe hut. Roy was disturbed by what had happened, but when Weston told him this was the old man’s nightly experience, the boy tried to dismiss the incident.
On the way to their boarding house, Weston pointed out the office of the Utah Mining and Development Company. It was a one-story building, covered with tin pressed in imitation of stone, with a large enclosed yard in the rear. As they passed the dark structure, it was almost like meeting an old friend to read on the big, plate-glass window the words, “R. C. Cook, Manager,” in brilliant gold letters.
“Them fellers,” remarked Weston, in passing, “don’t make no great splurge, but they’re the Rothchilds er the Stan’ard Oil Company er the Pierpont Morgans o’ this land. An’ when ye speak o’ the firm yer goin’ to work fur, ye don’t have to say nothin’ but ‘Company’--ever’body knows.”