Our stuff'll be there all right."
"'T ain't the money I'm thinkin' about. It's you and me."
"Forget it!" Brevoort slapped Pete on the shoulder. "Come on in here
and have something."
"I'll go you one more--and then I quit," said Pete. For Pete began to
realize that Brevoort's manner was slowly changing. Outwardly he was
the same slow-speaking Texan, but his voice had taken on a curious
inflection of recklessness which Pete attributed to the few but
generous drinks of whiskey the Texan had taken. And Pete knew what
whiskey could do to a man. He had learned enough about that when with
the horse-trader. Moreover, Pete considered it a sort of weakness--to
indulge in liquor when either in danger or about to face it. He had no
moral scruples whatever. He simply viewed it from a utilitarian angle.
A man with the fine edge of his wits benumbed by whiskey was apt to
blunder. And Pete knew only to well that they would have need for all
of their wits and caution to get safely out of El Paso. And to blunder
now meant perhaps a fight with the police--for Pete knew that Brevoort
would never suffer arrest without making a fight--imprisonment, and
perhaps hanging.
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