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“I just came down from the Flying U the other day,” he said.

The bartender half turned, reached a tall, ribbed bottle and two glasses, and set them on the bar before Weary. “Go to it,” he invited cordially. “I’ll gamble yuh brought your thirst right along with yuh–and that’s your pet brand. Back to stay?”

Weary poured himself a modest “two fingers,” and wondered if he had better claim to have reformed; Irish could–and did–drink long and deep, where Weary indulged but moderately.

“No,” he said, setting the glass down without refilling. “They sent me back on business. How’s everything?”

The bartender spoke his wonder at the empty glass, listened while Weary explained how he had cut down his liquid refreshments “just to see how it would go, and which was boss,” and then told much unmeaning gossip about men and women Weary had never heard of before.

Weary listened with exaggerated interest, and wondered what the fellow would do if he told him he was not Irish Mallory at all. He reflected, with some amusement, that he did not even know what to call the bartender, and tried to remember if Irish had ever mentioned him. He was about to state quietly that he had never met him before, and watch the surprise of the other, when the bartender grew more interesting.

“And say! yuh’d best keep your gun strapped on yuh, whilst you’re down here,” he told Weary, with some earnestness. “Spikes Weber is in this country–come just after yuh left; fact is, he’s got it into his block that you left because he come. Brought his wife along–say! I feel sorry for that little woman–and when he ain’t bowling up and singing his war-song about you, and all he’ll do when he meets up with yuh, he’s dealing her misery and keeping cases that nobody runs off with her. Why, at dances, he won’t let her dance with nobody but him! Goes plumb wild, sometimes, when it’s ‘change partners’ in a square dance, and he sees her swingin’ with somebody he thinks looks good to her. I’ve saw him raising hell with her, off in some corner between dances, and her trying not to let on she’s cryin’. He’s dead sure you’re still crazy over her, and ready to steal her away from him first chance, only you’re afraid uh him. He never gits full but he reads out your pedigree to the crowd. So I just thought I’d tell you, and let yuh be on your guard.”

“Thanks,” said Weary, getting out papers and tobacco. “And whereabouts will I find this lovely specimen uh manhood?”

“They’re stopping over to Bill Mason’s; but yuh better not go hunting trouble, Irish. That’s the worst about putting yuh next to the lay. You sure do love a fight. But I thought I’d let yuh know, as a friend, so he wouldn’t take you unawares. Don’t be a fool and go out looking for him, though; he ain’t worth the trouble.”

“I won’t,” Weary promised generously. “I haven’t lost nobody that looks like Spikes-er-” he searched his memory frantically for the other name, failed to get it, and busied himself with his cigarette, looking mean and bloodthirsty to make up. “Still,” he added darkly, “if I should happen to meet up with him, yuh couldn’t blame me–“

“Oh, sure not!” the bartender hastened to cut in. “It’d be a case uh self-defence–the way he’s been makin’ threats. But–“

“Maybe,” hazarded Weary mildly, “you’d kinda like to see–her–a widow?”

“From all accounts,” the other retorted, flushing a bit nevertheless, “If yuh make her a widow, yuh won’t leave her that way long. I’ve heard it said you was pretty far gone, there.”

Weary considered, the while he struck another match and relighted his cigarette. He had not expected to lay bare any romance in the somewhat tumultuous past of Irish. Irish had not seemed the sort of fellow who had an unhappy love affair to dream of nights; he had seemed a particularly whole-hearted young man.