Slaney looked up from the bench on which he was spread out.
"Guess he'll have wuss'n her when Bob Richards gets around," he said gloomily.
"D'you reckon they'll git him--with Buck around?" inquired Curly anxiously.
"Buck! Tcha!" Beasley's dislike for the moment got the better of his discretion. But he quickly realized his mistake, and proceeded to twist his meaning. "It makes me mad. It makes me plumb crazed when I think o' that bully feller, the Padre, bein' give dead away by the folks at the farm. Buck? Psha'! Who's Buck agin a feller like Bob Richards? Bob's the greatest sheriff ever stepped in Montana. He'll twist Buck so he won't know rye whisky from sow-belly. Buck's grit, elegant grit, but Bob--wal, I'd say he's the wisest guy west of Chicago, when it comes to stringin' up a crook."
"I'm with you, boss," cried Diamond Jack, in a quick rage. "This farm needs lookin' to to-night sure. We got to git in 'fore sheriffs git around. They're playin' a low-down racket. Jonahs don't cut no ice with me, but they're chasin' up glory agin the camp. That's how I read it. Guess none of us is saints, anyways I don't seem to hear no wings flappin'; but givin' folks up to the law is--low."
Abe Allinson grunted, and a general atmosphere of silent approval prevailed. Beasley, whose eyes were watching every expression, pushed the ball further along.
"Low?" he cried. "You, Jack, don't know the guy we're so dead keen to help out. If you did you'd git right up on to your hind legs an' cuss terrible--an' you've cussed some in your time. But for him this camp wouldn't be the bonanza it is. You wouldn't be nettin' a pile of dollars every night in my bar. I wouldn't be runnin' a big proposition in dollar makin'. These boys wouldn't be chasin' gold on full bellies. Gee, it makes me mad--an' thirsty. Let's get around inside an' see what that glass rustler of mine can do."
The response was immediate and complete. No man had ever been known to refuse Beasley's hospitality. Everybody drank. And they drank again at Diamond Jack's expense. Then later they drank at their own. And all the while Beasley, with consummate skill, shepherded them to his own ends.
It was truly wonderful to see the manner in which he handled them. He adopted the simplest tactics, once he had set the ball rolling, contenting himself with dropping in a word here and there every time the subject of the sheriff drifted toward his ears. He knew these men. He possessed that keenness of insight into his customers which no successful saloon-keeper fails to acquire. He understood their weaknesses in a manner which left it a simple enough task to play upon them. In this case the basis of his procedure was drink--strong, harsh whisky, of a violent type.