That a "booze-fighter" like
Ford Campbell should come only a day's ride from town and not be fairly
well supplied with whisky was too remarkable to be altogether plausible.
He eyed the two sourly while they talked, and he did not bring forth one
of the fresh pies he had baked, as he had meant to do.
It was not until Ford was ready to light his after-dinner cigarette
that Mason led the way into the next room, which held the bunks and
general belongings of the men, and closed the door so that they might
talk in confidence without fear of Mose's loose tongue. Ford immediately
pulled off his boots, laid himself down upon one of the bunks, doubled a
pillow under his head, and began to eye Mason quizzically. Then he said:
"Say, you kinda played your hand face down, didn't you, Ches, when you
wrote and asked me to come out here and take charge? Eight years is a
long time to expect a man to stay right where he was when you saw him
last. You've lost a whole lot of horse sense since I knew you."
"Well, what about it? You came, I notice." Mason grinned and would not
help Ford otherwise to an understanding.
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