Bill was more indignant than confused, although he was as red as Henry Bergen's vest. The cowboys slapped themselves on the thighs with their big hats, driving out the dust like somebody beating a carpet; they looked across at Charley Mallon, upon whom they appeared to think the joke centered, and whooped in shrill derision. Bill's companions tilted their heads in unison and put their liquor where it would do nobody any harm but themselves, still keeping their eyes on the bar when they put their glasses down.
Bill was ashamed for the embarrassment he had brought them, but not ashamed for himself. It was not through any moral objection that he had not taken whisky along with the rest of them. If he'd liked it he would have taken his shot as big as the biggest. He had tried it out a good many times when the boys brought bottles out from Kansas City, but never had come to the belief that it was made to drink. He was turning to Major Simmons to explain that it was not a moral question with him, but purely gustatory, when one of the cowboys detached himself from his group of laughing comrades and approached Bill with insolent simulation of curiosity.
He was a rather smart-appearing young man,
