My patching finished, we went down to the Jew’s for food. Three eaters were sitting at the counter. I had to exchange comments on the battle with them while I ate.
We were interrupted by the running of horses in the street. A dozen or more men went past the door, and we could hear them pulling up sharply, dismounting, in front of Bardell’s.
Milk River leaned sidewise until his mouth was close to my ear.
“Big ’Nacio’s crew from down the canyon. You better hold on tight, chief, or they’ll shake the town from under you.”
We finished our meal and went out to the street.
In the glow from the big lamp over Bardell’s door a Mexican lounged against the wall. A big black-bearded man, his clothes gay with silver buttons, two white-handled guns holstered low on his thighs, the holsters tied down.
“Will you take the horses over to the stable?” I asked Milk River. “I’m going up and lie across the bed and grow strength again.”
He looked at me curiously, and went over to where we had left the ponies.
I stopped in front of the bearded Mexican, and pointed with my cigarette at his guns.
“You’re supposed to take those things off when you come to town,” I said pleasantly. “Matter of fact, you’re not supposed to bring ’em in at all,