The prospect almost entirely restored his good-humor, and he was still smiling when the door was suddenly pushed open and the Padre's burly figure appeared on the threshold.
The saloon-keeper's smile died at sight of the familiar white hair. Of all the people on Yellow Creek this was the man he least wanted to see at the moment. But he was shrewd enough to avoid any sign of open antagonism. He knew well enough that Moreton Kenyon was neither a fool nor a coward. He knew that to openly measure swords with him was to challenge a man of far superior intellect and strength, and the issue was pretty sure to go against him. Besides, this man they affectionately called the Padre had the entire good-will of the place.
But though he always avoided open antagonism the storekeeper never let go his grip on his dislike. He clung to it hoping to discover some means of breaking the man's position in the camp and bringing about an utter revulsion of the public feeling for him. There was much about the Padre that gave him food for thought. One detail in particular was always in his mind, a detail such as a mind like his was bound to question closely. He could never understand the man's object in the isolation of the life he had lived for so many years here in the back country of the West.
However, he was only concerned at the moment with the object of this unusual visit, and his shrewd speculation turned upon the pursuit of Curly.
"Evenin', Padre," he said, with a cordiality the most exacting could have found no fault with.
"Good-evening," replied the newcomer, smiling pleasantly as he glanced round the sordid hovel. Then he added: "Times are changed, sure. But--where are your customers?"
Beasley's quick eyes gazed sharply at the perfect mask of disarming geniality. He was looking for some sign to give him a lead, but there was only easy good-nature in the deep gray eyes beneath their shaggy brows.
"Guess they're out chasin' that fool-head Curly Saunders," he said unguardedly. However, he saw his mistake in an instant and tried to rectify it. "Y' see they're always skylarkin' when they git liquor under their belts."
"Skylarking?" The Padre propped himself against the bar, and his eyes suddenly rested on an ugly stain on the sand floor.
Beasley followed his glance, and beheld the pool of blood which had flowed from the Kid's wound. He cursed himself for not having obliterated it. Then, in a moment, he decided to carry the matter with a high hand.
"Psha'! What's the use'n beatin' around!" he said half-defiantly. "They're chasin' Curly to lynch him for shootin' up the Kid."