get into trouble."

He raised his glass.

"So here's to the man that Sandy was and ain't no more."

They drank solemnly.

"Maybe you took the fall out of him yourself, Flanders?"

"Nope. I ain't no fighter, Steve. You know that. The feller that downed
Sandy was--a tenderfoot. Yep, a greenhorn."

"Ah-h-h," drawled Nash softly, "I thought so."

"You did?"

"Anyway, let's hear the story. Another drink--on me, Flanders."

"It was like this. Along about evening of yesterday Sandy was in here
with a couple of other boys. He was pretty well lighted--the glow was
circulatin' promiscuous, in fact--when in comes a feller about your
height, Steve, but lighter. Goodlookin', thin face, big dark eyes like a
girl. He carried the signs of a long ride on him. Well, sir, he walks up
to the bar and says: 'Can you make me a very sour lemonade, Mr.
Bartender?'

"I grabbed the edge of the bar and hung tight.

"'A which?' says I.

"'Lemonade, if you please.'

"I rolled an eye at Sandy, who was standin' there with his jaw falling,
and then I got busy with lemons and the squeezer, but pretty soon
Ferguson walks up to the stranger.

"'Are you English?' he asks.

"I knew by his tone what was comin', so I slid the gun I keep behind the
bar closer and got prepared for a lot of damaged crockery.

"'I?' says the tenderfoot. 'Why, no. What makes you ask?'

"'Your damned funny way of talkin',' says Sandy.

"'Oh,' says the greenhorn, nodding as if he was thinkin' this over and
discovering a little truth in it. 'I suppose the way I talk is a little
unusual.'

"'A little rotten,' says Sandy. 'Did I hear you askin' for a lemonade?'

"'You did.'

"'Would I seem to be askin' too many questions,' says Sandy, terrible
polite, 'if I inquires if bar whisky ain't good enough for you?'

"The tenderfoot, he stands there jest as easy as you an' me stand here
now, and he laughed.

"He says: 'The bar whisky I've tasted around this country is not very
good for any one, unless, perhaps, after a snake has bitten you. Then it
works on the principle of poison fight poison, eh?'

"Sandy says after a minute: 'I'm the most quietest, gentle, innercent
cowpuncher that ever rode the range, but I'd tell a man that it riles me
to hear good bar whisky insulted like this. Look at me! Do I look as if
whisky ain't good for a man?'

"'Why,' says the tenderfoot, 'you look sort of funny to me.'

"He said it as easy as if he was passin' the morning with