He noted a cowboy sitting in his saddle while he rolled
a cigarette. Obviously he had come in to look
things over rather than to share in the mining, and
he made the one sane, critical note in the carnival
of noise and color. Donnegan began to pass stores.
There was the jeweler’s; the gent’s furnishing;
a real estate office—what could real estate
be doing on the Young Muddy’s desert? Here
was the pawnshop, the windows of which were already
packed. The blacksmith had a great establishment,
and the roar of the anvils never died away; feed and
grain and a dozen lunch-counter restaurants.
All this had come to The Corner within six weeks.
Liquor seemed to be plentiful, too. In the entire
length of the street he hardly saw a sober man, except
the cowboy. Half a dozen in one group pitched
silver dollars at a mark. But he was in the saloon
district now, and dominant among the rest was the
big, unpainted front of a building before which hung
an enormous sign:
Donnegan turned in under the sign.
It was one big room. The bar stretched completely
around two sides of it. The floor was dirt, but
packed to the hardness of wood. The low roof
was supported by a scattering of wooden pillars, and
across the floor the gaming tables were spread.
At that vast bar not ten men were drinking now; at
the crowding tables there were not half a dozen players;
yet behind the bar stood a dozen tenders ready to meet
the evening rush from the mines. And at the tables
waited an equal number of the professional gamblers
of the house.
From the door Donnegan observed these things with
one sweeping glance, and then proceeded to transform
himself. One jerk at the visor of his cap brought
it down over his eyes and covered his face with shadow;
a single shrug bunched the ragged coat high around
his shoulders, and the shoulders themselves he allowed
to drop forward. With his hands in his pockets
he glided slowly across the room toward the bar, for
all the world a picture of the guttersnipe who had
been kicked from pillar to post until self-respect
is dead in him. And pausing in his advance, he
leaned against one of the pillars and looked hungrily
toward the bar.
He was immediately hailed from behind the bar with:
“Hey, you. No tramps in here. Pay
and stay in Lebrun’s!”
The command brought an immediate protest. A big
fellow stepped from the bar, his sombrero pushed to
the back of his head, his shirt sleeves rolled to
the elbow away from vast hairy forearms. One of
his long arms swept out and brought Donnegan to the
bar.
“I ain’t no prophet,” declared the
giant, “but I can spot a man that’s dry.
What’ll you have, bud?” And to the bartender
he added: “Leave him be, pardner, unless
you’re all set for considerable noise in here.”
“Long as his drinks are paid for,” muttered
the bartender, “here he stays. But these
floaters do make me tired!”
