"Jack's--no good anyway.

Tol' 'im he'd get hung if he--have a d-drink ?" The loose-jointed one would, and so would his neighbors.

The Captain glanced back at them, gave a contemptuous lift to his upper lip and faced again to the front.
Dade uncoiled his riata with aimless, fumbling fingers and swung the noose facetiously toward the bottle, uptilted over the eager mouth of a weazened little Irishman.

He caught bottle and hand together, let them go with a quick flip of the rawhide and waggled his head in apology.
"_Excuse_ me, Mike," he mumbled, while the Irishman stopped and glared.

"Go awn! Have a drink.