won't dast t' drink. If yuh ain't, you'll be almighty glad to. Anyway,
it'll be settled one way or t'other. Drink 'er down!"

Casey blinked again, but this time he did not grin. He debated swiftly
his chance of scaring Joe with the dynamite before Joe would shoot.
But Joe had his finger crooked with drunken solemnity upon the trigger.
The time for dynamite was not now.

"Pap an' Hank, they lap up anything an' call it good. I claim that's
got a back-action kick to it. Drink 'er down!"

Casey drank 'er down. It was like swallowing flames. It was a
half-pint flask, and it was full when Casey, with Joe's eyes fixed upon
him, tilted it and began to drink. Under Joe's baleful glare Casey
emptied the flask before he stopped.

Joe settled his shoulders comfortably against the doorway and watched
Casey make for the water bucket.

"I claim that's the out-kickin'est stuff that ever was made on Black
Butte. How'd yuh like it?"

"All right," Casey bore witness, keeping his eyes fixed on Joe and the
gun and trying his best to maintain a nonchalant manner. "I'd call it
purty fair hootch."

"It's GOOD hootch!" Joe declared impressively, apparently quite
convinced that Casey was not a Federal officer. "Can yuh feel the
kick'to it?"

Casey backed until he sat on the edge of the table his good right hand
supporting his left elbow outside the sling. He grinned at Joe and
while he still keenly realized that he was playing a part for the sole
purpose of gaining somehow an advantage over Joe, he was conscious of a
slight giddiness. An unprejudiced observer would have noticed that his
grin was not quite the old, Casey Ryan grin. It was a shade foolish.

"Bet your life I can feel the kick!" he agreed, nodding his head. "You
can ask anybody." Then Casey discovered something strange in Joe's
appearance. He lifted his head, held it very still and regarded Joe
attentively.

"Say, Joe, what yuh tryin' to do with that six-gun? Tryin' to write
your name in the air with it?"

Joe looked inquiringly down at the gun, eyeing it as if it were a new
and absolutely unknown object. He satisfied himself apparently beyond
all doubt that the gun was doing nothing it should not do, and finally
turned his attention to Casey sitting on the table and grinning at him
meaninglessly.

"Ain't writin' nothin'," Joe stated solemnly. "It's yore eyes. Gun's
all right--yo'r seein' crooked. It's the hootch. Back-action kick to
it. Ain't tha