"Wher's Ike?" he demanded without preamble the moment he beheld the grinning face of the saloon-keeper.
"Gee!" Beasley's grin suddenly broke out into a loud laugh. He brought his two hands down on the counter and gave himself up to the joy of the moment.
Pete watched him with growing unfriendliness.
"You're rattled some," he said at last, with elaborate sarcasm. Then, as Beasley stood up choking with laughter and rubbing his eyes, he went on: "Seems to me I asked you a civil question."
Beasley nodded, and guffawed again.
"You sure did," he said at last, stifling his mirth as he beheld the other's threatening frown. "Well, I ain't laffin' at you. It's--it's jest at things."
But Pete had no sense of humor. He disliked Beasley, and simply wanted his information now.
"Ike been along?" he demanded doggedly.
Beasley spluttered. Then he subsided into a malicious grin again.
"Sure," he said. "He's been in with a fat wad. Say, he's a lucky swine. 'Most everything comes his way. Guess he can't never touch bad. He's ahead on the game, he's a golden-haired pet with the gals, an' he gits gold in--lumps."
But Pete's dark face and hungry eyes showed no appreciation, and Beasley knew that the man's mood was an ugly one.
"Wher's he now?"
"Can't jest say. I didn't ask him wher' he was goin'. Y' see I cashed his gold, and we had a drink. He seemed excited some. Guess he was sort of priming himself. Maybe he's gone along to the gals. Have a drink?"
"No--yes, give us a horn of rye."
The man behind the bar pushed the bottle across.
"What you needin' him for?" he asked with apparent unconcern.
Pete snatched at his drink.
"That ain't your affair," he retorted surlily.
"Sure it ain't. I jest asked--casual."
Pete banged his empty glass on the counter.
"I'm needin' him bad," he cried, his eyes furiously alight. "I'm needin' him cos I know the racket he's on. See? He quit his claim early cos--cos----"
"Cos he's goin' to pay a 'party' call on that Golden Woman," cried Beasley, appearing to have made a sudden discovery. "I got it, now. That's why he was in sech a hurry. That's why he needed a good dose o' rye. Say, that feller means marryin' that gal. I've heard tell he's got it all fixed with her. I've heard tell she's dead sweet on him. Wal, I ain't sure but wot it's natural. He's a good looker; so is she. An' he's a bright boy. Guess he's got the grit to look after a gal good. He's a pretty scrapper. Another drink?"