“No objections, I’m sure,” said Plunkett, dropping into his chair heavily. “I’m hungry myself. I didn’t want to accept the hospitality of you folks without giving you notice; that’s all.”
Reeves set bottles and glasses on the table.
“There’s cognac,” he said, “and anisada, and Scotch ‘smoke,’ and rye. Take your choice.”
Bridger chose rye, Reeves poured three fingers of Scotch for himself, Morgan took the same. The sheriff, against much protestation, filled his glass from the water bottle.
“Here’s to the appetite,” said Reeves, raising his glass, “of Mr. Williams!” Morgan’s laugh and his drink encountering sent him into a choking-splutter. All began to pay attention to the dinner, which was well cooked and palatable.
“Williams!” called Plunkett, suddenly and sharply.
All looked up wonderingly. Reeves found the sheriff’s mild eye resting upon him. He flushed a little.
“See here,” he said, with some asperity, “my name’s Reeves, and I don’t want you to———” But the comedy of the thing came to his rescue, and he ended with a laugh.
“I suppose, Mr. Plunkett,” said Morgan, carefully seasoning an alligator pear, “that you are aware of the fact that you will import a good deal of trouble for yourself into Kentucky if you take back the wrong man—that is, of course, if you take anybody back?”
“Thank you for the salt,” said the sheriff. “Oh, I’ll
