bached.

From the first, Rowdy did not like the look of things--though for
himself it did not matter; he was used to such scenes. It was the
presence of the girl which made him uncomfortable. He unbuttoned his
coat that the warmth might reach his chilled body, and frowned.

Four men sat around a small, dirty table; evidently the arrivals had
interrupted an exciting game of seven-up. A glance told Rowdy, even
if his nose had not, that the four round, ribbed bottles had not been
nearly emptied without effect.

"Have one on the house," the man nearest him cried, and shoved a bottle
toward him.

Involuntarily Rowdy reached for it. Now that he was inside, he realized
all at once how weary he was, and cold and hungry. Each abused muscle
and nerve seemed to have a distinct grievance against him. His fingers
closed around the bottle before he remembered and dropped it. He looked
up, hoping Miss Conroy had not observed the action; met her wide,
questioning eyes, and the blood flew guiltily to his cheeks.

"Thanks, boys--not any for me," he said, and apologized to Miss Conroy
with his eyes.

The man rose and confronted him unsteadily. "Dat's a hell off a way! You
too proud for drink weeth us? You drink, now! By Gar, I make you drink!"

Rowdy's eyelids drooped, which was a bad sign for those who knew him.
"You're forgetting there's a lady present," he reminded warningly.

The man turned a brief, contemptuous glance toward the stove. "You got
the damn' queer way to talk. I don't call no squaw no lady. You drink
queeck, now!"

"Aw, shut up, Frenchy," the man at his elbow abjured him. "He don't have
to drink if he don't want to."

"You keep the face close," the other retorted majestically; and cursed
loud and long and incoherently.

Rowdy drew back his arm, with a fist that meant trouble for somebody;
but there were others before him who pinned the importunate host to the
table, where he squirmed unavailingly.

Rowdy buttoned up his coat the while he eyed the group disgustedly. "I
guess we'll drift," he remarked. "You don't look good to me, and that's
no dream."

"Aw, stay and warm up," the fourth man expostulated. "Yuh don't need t'
mind Le Febre; he's drunk."

But Rowdy opened the door decisively, and Miss Conroy, her cheeks
like two storm-buffeted poppies, followed him out with dignity--albeit
trailing a yard of red-and-yellow Navajo blanket behind her. Rowdy
lifted her into the saddle, tucked her feet carefully