"Wal?"
It was the only response Buck afforded him.
"Wal," Beasley shifted his gaze. He laughed feebly, and the onlookers transferred their attention to him. "Y' see, it was sort o' laffable you comin' along buyin' winter stores in August, an' us jest guessin' what guy the sheriff would be chasin'--in the hills. He won't be smellin' around the fort now?" He grinned amiably into the dark face. But deep in his wicked eyes was an assurance which Buck promptly read.
Nor did it take him a second to come to a decision. He returned the man's look with a coolness that belied his real feelings. He knew beyond question that Mercy Lascelles had already commenced her campaign against the Padre. He had learned of her journey into the camp from Joan. The result of that journey had not reached him yet. At least it was reaching him now.
"You best hand it me straight, Beasley," he said. "Guess nothin' straight is a heap in your line. But jest for once you've got no corners to crawl around. Hand it out--an' quick."
Buck's manner was dangerously sharp set. There was a smouldering fire growing in his passionate eyes. Beasley hesitated. But his hesitation was only for the reason of his own growing heat. He made one last effort to handle the matter in the way he had originally desired, which was with a process of good-humored goading with which he hoped to keep the company present on his side.
"Ther's no offense, Buck," he said. "At least ther' sure needn't to be. You never could play easy. I wus jest handin' you a laff--same as we had."
"I'm waitin'," said Buck with growing intensity, utterly ignoring the explanation.
But Beasley's hatred of the man could not be long denied. Besides, his last attempt had changed the attitude of the onlookers. There was a lurking derision, even contempt in their regard for him. It was the result of what had occurred before Buck's coming. They expected him to talk as plainly as he had done then. So he gave rein to the venom which he could never long restrain.
"Guess I hadn't best ke'p you waitin', sure," he said ironically. Then his eyes suddenly lit. "Winter stores, eh?" he cried derisively. "Winter stores--an' why'll the Padre need 'em, the good kind Padre, when the sheriff's comin' along to round him up fer--murder?"
There was a moment of tense silence as the man flung his challenge across the bar. Every eye in the room was upon the two men facing each other. In the mind of every one present was only one expectation. The lightning-like play of life and death.