“Have you got any left?”

“No—­honest.  Used ’em all up—­for m’ mince-meat!”

Ford knew he was lying.  His eyes searched the untidy tables and the corners filled with bags and boxes.  Mose was a good cook, but his ideas of order were vague, and his system of housekeeping was the simple one of leaving everything where he had last been using it, so that it might be handy when he wanted it again.  A dozen bottles might be concealed there, like the faces in a picture-puzzle, and it would take a housecleaning to disclose them all.  But Ford, when he knew that no bottle had been left in sight, began turning over the bags and looking behind the boxes.

He must have been “growing warm” when he stood wondering whether it was worth while to look into the flour-bin, for Mose gave an inarticulate snarl and pounced on him from behind.  The weight of him sent Ford down on all fours and kept him there for a space, and even after he was up he found himself quite busy.  Mose was a husky individual, with no infirmity of the arms and fists, even if he did have a stiff leg, and drunkenness frequently flares and fades in a man like a candle guttering in the wind.  Besides, Mose was fighting to save his whisky.

Still, Ford had not sent all of Sunset into its cellars, figuratively speaking, for nothing; and while a man may feel more enthusiasm for fighting when under the influence of the stuff that cheers sometimes and never fails to inebriate, the added incentive does not necessarily mean also added muscular development or more weight behind the punch.  Ford, fighting as he had always fought, be he drunk or sober, came speedily to the point where he could inspect a skinned knuckle and afterwards gaze in peace upon his antagonist.

He was occupied with both diversions when the door was pushed open as by a man in great haste.  He looked up from the knuckle into the expectant eyes of Jim Felton, and over the shoulder of Jim he saw a gloating certainty writ large upon the face of Dick Thomas.  They had been running; he could tell that by their uneven breathing, and it occurred to him that they must have heard the clamor when he pitched Mose head first into the dish cupboard.  There had been considerable noise about that time, he remembered; they must also have heard the howl Mose gave at the instant of contact.  Ford glanced involuntarily at that side of the room where stood the cupboard, and mentally admitted that it looked like there had been a slight disagreement, or else a severe seismic disturbance; and Montana is not what one calls an earthquake country.  His eyes left the generous sprinkle of broken dishes on the floor, with Mose sprawled inertly in their midst, looking not unlike a broken platter himself—­or one badly nicked—­and rested again upon the grinning face behind the shoulder of Jim Felton.

Ford was ever a man of not many words, even when he had a grievance.  He made straight for Dick, and when he had pushed Jim out of the way, he reached him violently.  Dick tottered upon the step and went off backward, and Ford landed upon him fairly and with full knowledge and intent.